


The Long Road South

by citsiurtlanu



Category: Captain America (Comics), Iron Man (Comic), Iron Man Noir, Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Captain America/Iron Man Big Bang 2016, Community: cap_ironman, Inspired by The Walking Dead, M/M, Minor Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Minor Luke Cage/Jessica Jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 15:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 41,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8538460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citsiurtlanu/pseuds/citsiurtlanu
Summary: Zombie apocalypse AU. Steve Rogers is rescued ten years after going into the ice to find the world taken over by the undead, with the man who brought him out being none other than his old flame, Tony Stark. Believing that the serum running through Steve's veins is humanity's last hope for finding a cure, they begin the long journey south in order to meet up with Tony's other contacts - dealing with hordes of biters, living people of varying trustworthiness, and Steve's own unresolved anger toward Tony for his role in the War along the way.
(Warnings can be found in the notes.)





	1. Maine

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings can be found here (please note that they may be very spoilery; also, please forgive the totally inappropriate font, HAHA): <http://notes.io/rEv7> If you would like to know any other details before diving into this, you're free to ask on my [tumblr](http://citsiurtlanu.tumblr.com).
> 
> This fic is what I would call post-Noir, in that it takes place in the Iron Man Noir universe but is not really in the same spirit as Iron Man Noir - there are no fantastical adventures or hunting for mystical relics. It's juts two tired men trying to stay alive in the zombie apocalypse. There are a few pieces of canon I've lifted from other universes, but overall the only major canon dependency is the state of Tony's heart, which is in working shape but cannot beat on its own.
> 
> Major thanks to [phoenixmetaphor](http://phoenixmetaphor.tumblr.com/), who gave me encouragement in the early days of this fic (well over a year ago), [needchocolatenow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/needchocolatenow/pseuds/needchocolatenow), who alpha read the fic and assured me it wasn't a hot mess, and [hydrogeology](http://hydrogeology.tumblr.com), who betaed the fic and gave me a lot of insightful comments. I still would have written this without their input, but it would have been worse without them.
> 
> And, of cooourse, thank you to my artist, [fields-of-lamplight](http://fields-of-lamplight.tumblr.com/)! I'll be linking their art at the end of the fic because it's quite spoilery, but if you'd like to view it now anyway you can find it [here](http://fields-of-lamplight.tumblr.com/post/153117990930/my-art-for-my-capironman-big-bang-2016-with)! Thank you again!!

_"My God.  He's alive."_

 

*

 

Wind whistling past his ears, the Atlantic rushing ever closer, muscles tensing as he braced for impact, and then cold—so cold—and then—

               Steve opened his eyes with a gasp, seeing nothing but darkness no matter how much his gaze darted.  For a long moment he kept himself motionless, wondering if he was still lost in the depths of the ocean or not.  But then breaths came to him, one by one by one, and he remembered that it had been impossible to breathe in the water.

               Oh, he thought, when thought came to him at last.  I'm alive.

               The realization, however, was less useful than he would have liked.  He was alive, but why?  How?

               Instinct slowly returned to him, and eventually Steve managed to remember the basics of assessing a situation.  Sitting up on his elbows, he scoped out his location as his eyes adjusted to the dark.  He wasn't tied down—that was good.  But he was in some sort of cabin with thick, black curtains hanging off of one wall, likely blocking out the windows—that seemed less good.  Another wall had a shelf with what looked like several cans of food, though most of them were already opened and likely empty.  There was a story here, Steve thought, but he didn't know what it was.

               The rifles leaning against one corner of the room told him that he needed to figure it out.

               Cautiously, Steve wiggled his toes and then his fingers, shifting his arms and legs experimentally.  He still wasn't sure why he was here, but whoever was responsible didn't apply any sort of restraint, which was promising.  Once he was sure he had reasonable command over his body—how long had it been since he'd last moved around, days?  Weeks?—he managed to swing himself off the bed, gripping at the nightstand to steady himself.  "Deep breaths," he murmured, and he found himself surprised at how scratchy his voice sounded.

               Soon enough, Steve decided he could stand reliably, maybe even walk, so he shuffled to the black curtains, pushing them aside to find that he'd been right about them covering the windows.  They didn't reveal much aside from a dusky sky and snowy grounds, but since the last thing he'd seen was the Atlantic coming ever closer to him, any sort of land was a relief.  Still, he needed more information, and so he decided to head outside, hoping to find a landmark or something to orient himself with.

               It was cold.  Of course it was cold, because even miraculously retrieved from the ocean, it seemed like this was one thing he couldn't shake, and the bite of the wind was enough to give him unpleasant memories about tumbling into the Atlantic.  But the desire for answers outweighed his discomfort, and after looking around and seeing nothing but a small road leading away and a cluster of trees, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Hello?"

               No answer.  Which was a shock, really, because the snow was covered with footprints, suggesting at least somewhat recent activity in the area.  Steve stood there for a while longer and then turned away, about to give it up as a lost cause when movement from the forest caught his eye—a human, it seemed.  A woman, even.  She was dressed warmly, but her clothes were stained with blood and her gait was lumbering and awkward, suggesting some sort of leg injury.  Not wanting her to strain herself more than necessary, Steve rushed to her side, reaching out to take her hands.

               "I've got you—" he began, and that was when he noticed that she smelled like death.

               And that wasn't the only thing.  She lunged weakly at him, revealing, as she did, that her eyes were white, and her teeth were stained with brown and red.  She responded to the sound of his voice, but only in the most basic of ways, working her jaw whenever he spoke.  Something was very wrong, and Steve needed to help.

               "Okay," he tried as he guided her back toward the cabin, instinctively keeping himself away from her mouth.  "Alright.  You… don't understand me.  That's fine.  We'll get you to the cabin, and maybe once you've had something to eat we'll figure something out…"

               That was the plan, anyway.  It lasted for all of a minute before she lunged again, her momentum carrying her past him.  He kept a firm hold on her wrist, not wanting her to topple over—but then he heard a sound he'd only heard during the war, a sound he never wanted to hear again: skin ripping, joints popping, and just like that the hand he'd been holding was no longer attached to her body, and now it was dripping discolored blood onto the otherwise white snow.  "Jesus," he heard, and it took a moment to realize it was just himself saying it—because the woman hadn't uttered a sound upon losing a damned limb.  Not a whimper, not a cry, nothing.  He dropped the hand and backed away, only to find himself suddenly on his ass—the woman had stuck out a leg and he'd tripped, his reflexes still muddy.  And then she was on top of him, blank eyes staring nowhere as the stump where her missing hand used to be rubbed blood all over his shirt, and her face was so, so close.  But he couldn't do it; he couldn't hurt her.  How could he, when it was obvious she wasn't in control of her own actions right now?  And how could he use force when he knew her body could fall apart at a moment's notice?

               "Ma'am," he managed, holding her at bay as gently as he could, wincing when he saw skin strain and start to tear, "please, I'm here to help!"

               The woman was unmoved.  She pushed closer instead, those rotting teeth still working furiously, inches away from his skin—

               "Steve!"

               There was a bang, and then: nothing.

               Steve blinked slowly, staring at the sky where the woman's head had once been.  Then his gaze went down, and he found her head on his chest—or what remained of it, anyway, once that bullet had gone through.

               "You killed her," he said to the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching him, still staring disbelievingly at the corpse lying on top of him.  "She was unarmed, and you killed her."

               "She was already dead."

               A shadow fell over him, and at long last, Steve was able to pull his eyes away from the woman, looking up at the shooter instead.  Rifle in one hand, trimmed facial hair that had probably seen better days, and blue, blue eyes…

               "Stark?" he asked, hardly able to comprehend it.  "Tony Stark?"

               "None other," Stark replied, spreading his hands out wide and giving him a broad grin—even if it didn't quite reach his eyes.  "Welcome back to the land of the living—"  He paused, looking thoughtful for a moment, and then continued as though it were an afterthought: "—And the dead."

 

*

 

Stark ushered Steve back into the cabin after that, muttering something about how all that noise would have drawn "the others" and promising to explain everything when they were settled in.  Once the cabin was locked up and the black curtains were back in place, Stark lit a few candles and gave Steve a fresh set of clothes to change into before taking the soiled ones to the sink.  To Steve's surprise, he started to wash them in silence, all without a single joke or comment to be heard.  Since when did Tony Stark need to do his own laundry?  "Let me help," he offered, but Stark just waved him off, telling him to unpack the bag he'd brought back with him.

               Having nothing better to do, Steve complied, letting out a sigh of relief when he saw that his shield was the first thing in there.  He pulled it out, running his fingers around the familiar shape, and glanced over at Stark's back.  "Were you out looking for this?" he asked.  "Did you just find it?"

               "No, I've had it for a while," came the response.  "Been carrying it around as protection.  Just in case."

               Protection from what?  Steve frowned.  "Your suit's enough protection, don't you think?"

               "I don't have my suit anymore."

               "Why not?"

               Stark flapped a hand at him before going back to washing the clothes.  Steve hoped there was soap involved.  "Patience.  You'll learn everything soon enough, and then you'll wish you hadn't."

               That was unlikely, but Steve saw no point in arguing, going back to the bag.  There actually wasn't much in here—a few cans of what looked like dried milk, fruit, and ravioli, and also a box of dried eggs.  Steve rubbed his forehead.  "Why do you have these things, Stark?" he asked.  He definitely remembered falling into the Atlantic, which meant someone—Stark?—must have fished him out somehow.  The war had been winding down, but… maybe it'd started up again?  "Are we still at war?  Are we in Europe?"

               Stark let out what sounded like a choked laugh, shaking his head.  "God, no.  I _wish_ we were at war."

               His response seemed inexplicably bloodthirsty, and so Steve set the dried eggs down, glaring at the back of Stark's head as he felt a familiar anger swell within him.  "So you haven't changed," he snapped. "I thought that maybe—"

               " _Steve_."  His voice was sharp and cutting and _pained_ , and Steve quieted automatically, finding himself meeting Stark's gaze when the other man turned back to look at him.  He looked older, Steve realized.  Much older than he had when Steve had last seen him.  "I'll explain everything.  Soon."

               Steve bit back his response.  He decided to go back to the task at hand, putting the food on the shelf with the other cans he'd seen when he first woke up and moving all the empty ones to the side.  When he couldn't find an excuse to stand there any longer, he returned to the table, staring once again at the back of Stark's head.  Finally, Stark finished up, wringing the clothes out and draping them over the back of a chair to dry.

               "Alright," Stark said, taking a seat across from him.  "You have questions.  I have answers.  What do you want to know about first?"

               There was a lot.  Their location, Stark's missing suit, who "the others" were, the way Stark had just killed that woman—who was apparently "already dead"—without even trying to diffuse the situation… among many other things.  "I don't even know," Steve said, shaking his head.  "Tell me everything."

               "Everything," Stark repeated slowly, as though it were a new word he'd never heard before.  He inhaled deeply, staring down at his hands, then exhaled.  "Everything.  Okay.  Well.  For starters, it's 1954."

               Immediately, Steve felt his vision begin to swim, gripping a table in an attempt to keep himself steady.  " _What?_ " he managed.  1954?  That couldn't be.  That would mean he'd been out for over a decade, even though his mental clock had pegged his last meeting with Stark as mere months ago.  It couldn't be.  It _couldn't_.

               "You heard me," Stark said, his brow furrowing a bit as he watched Steve with concern—genuine or not, Steve wasn't sure at this point.  "I know.  It took us ten years to get you out.  I…"  Stark paused, taking another deep breath.  "We thought you were dead.  I'm sorry."

               _Don't be_ , Steve wanted to say—there were a lot of things Steve blamed Stark for, but this wasn't one of them.  His voice, though, refused to cooperate, and he made a choking sound instead, still feeling faint.  _1954_.  The war had ended, going by what Stark had said earlier, and Steve had been lying in the Atlantic like a damned idiot.  "Okay," he said after he'd composed himself as much as he could.  This was already a lot to dwell on, but there was still more to learn, and Steve had a sinking feeling he hadn't heard the worst of it yet.  "So… what was the plan, then?  The war ended, and you wanted to bury me in Arlington?"

               Stark closed his eyes.  "That was the original plan," he said.  "The war ended in 1945, and afterward we—the government, I mean—sent search parties out to look for you.  But then…"

               Steve considered telling Stark that they shouldn't have, that it was wasteful, even if he was admittedly grateful that he'd been found since he was alive after all.  But Stark wasn't done yet, so Steve held back, prodding him to continue instead.  "Then?"

               "The world ended."  Stark opened his eyes to look at Steve, who found himself taken aback, wondering why Stark would say something so bizarre.  "It's not exaggeration," Stark continued, reading the disbelief on Steve's face.  "Let's backtrack.  Remember the undead monster trying to eat you?"

               An image of a severed hand and blown-out brains came to mind, and Steve struggled to push it away.  "I remember an injured woman not knowing any better."

               "Don't," Stark whispered, and Steve glared at him, somehow knowing the words that would come out next.  "Don't be like this.  You don't understand."

               It was the Jericho all over again, Steve thought.

               Ten years ago, Stark had designed a weapon unlike any other, one that had the potential to kill more people at once than all the fire bombings they'd had up to that point combined.  Ten years ago, Steve had decided he could no longer listen to Stark's justifications, and their relationship, and everything that came with it—the stolen kisses, the quiet pleas to be careful, be safe, the secret smiles exchanged when in the company of others—ended.

               Ten years ago, and yet that condescending tone he'd heard then was exactly the same as the one he was hearing now.

               He set his jaw.  "You'd better make me understand, then."

               Stark held his hands up in a placating manner, and Steve forced himself to calm down.  "The… 'injured woman'," he said.  "She wasn't the only one injured like that."  He took yet another deep breath, then continued, "It was Hydra."

               Steve stared at Stark dumbly.  "I thought the war ended," he said.

               "We all did," Stark replied, and a sharp, bitter bark of laughter escaped his throat.  "The Axis powers surrendered.  Hydra surrendered.  We had trials for them and everything at Nuremberg.  A lot of them were hanged."  Steve winced, but Stark barreled on.  "But apparently that bullshit about more heads appearing was true, because as it turns out, Hydra still existed underground, and they were working on something.  And… they infected us with it.  Every single one of us."

               Steve blinked, thinking about the woman, then looking Stark over.  Something had clearly been wrong with the woman, but Stark looked fine, if tired, which flew in the face of his claim that "everyone" was infected.  Stark must have realized what he was thinking, because he let out another laugh—this one just as bitter as the last—and nodded.  "Yes, I'm infected.  And you probably are too by now.  And I'm telling you this because I—I learned it the hard way.  Let me backtrack again."

               So Steve stayed quiet, listening to Stark speak.  He told Steve about the beginning, when news reports about how the homeless dying from exposure seemed to recover and attack pedestrians started to come out at the turn of the decade.  He told Steve about the middle, when those people who had been attacked seemed to turn on everyone else, and riots swept across the nation.  And he told Steve about the end, when civilization as they'd remembered it collapsed, when the ones who'd managed to stay sane went into hiding from the ones who hadn't.  Apparently, the virus, bacteria, whatever the hell it was—it changed people who were hanging on to their last threads of life.  It took away their minds, leaving behind only some sort of primal urge to feed.  It wasn't the bite that drove them mad—the bite only accelerated their death.  The potential for madness was already there, and _that_ was what the infection was.

               "Of course," Stark said softly, gazing at the wall behind Steve's head, "we didn't actually realize that at first.  Everything had happened so quickly.  All we knew was that the bite was fatal.  We thought getting _bit_ was what caused the infection."

               It was a lot to take in, and Steve wasn't sure he understood how everything fit together yet.  "But you learned otherwise," he prompted.  The "hard way", whatever that meant.

               "When the outbreak happened, a lot of us boarded the airship—you remember the airship, don't you—and we took off, hoping to figure out what to do in relative safety."  Stark rubbed his forehead then, his gaze dropping to the table.  When he spoke next, his voice was a monotone.  "Jarvis had a heart attack.  We couldn't save him.  He died.  That was what we thought, anyway, until he got back up and he started attacking people.  Obviously we had to land the airship and evacuate, because he and everyone he bit would have turned us all otherwise. I got away with Rhodey in the suit."  Stark's voice remained as monotonous as ever, but Steve could see his fists clench.  "But we got separated from Pepper.  Rhodey and I split up to find her.  It didn't work.  It's been one thousand, five hundred twenty-seven days since I last saw her."

               Steve stared at Stark in horror.  Four years, he thought.  It had been four years since Stark had last seen Pepper—a woman Steve remembered with fondness—and he didn't even know if she was alive or dead.  "I'm… I'm sorry, Stark," he managed, at a loss for any other words.

               Stark shook his head slowly.  "It was a long time ago," he said, even if the tone of his voice and the tension in his body screamed that it was anything but.

               Steve held his tongue, though, and didn't call him out.  He looked around instead, needing to know even if he dreaded hearing the answer.  "And Jim?"

               "Rhodey was alive when we separated," Stark said, shaking his head again—quickly this time, as if trying to clear out his previous thoughts.  "That was about half a year ago.  See, this is the part where you come in.  We'd spent the past couple of years just trying to survive.  Rebuild.  We met a few people, some better than others.  And—I don't know.  I thought we were getting somewhere.  Hell, I even learned how to grow things.  But it was all meaningless.  People were still turning and biting other people unless you destroyed their brains.  The danger never ended.

               "So one day a man approached us.  He'd known who I was from before everything happened, and he'd heard I was here.  His name was Reed Richards.  Recognize it?  You probably don't.  One of the best scientific minds of our time.  Anyway—he said he'd heard that one of the NMI labs—sorry, the National Microbiological Institute—one of those labs was still operational, the one in Bethesda.  And if we could get there, maybe we could work on a cure.  So Rhodey went with him to the lab, to keep him safe, and I—I located Namor.  He took me to sea, and there… I actually found you."  Stark paused, and there was the tiniest of smiles on his face.  "I thought if anyone's blood could hold the key to a cure, it would be yours.  You being alive was an unexpected twist, but it was just icing on the cake."

               "Despite what we said to each other the last time I saw you?" Steve couldn't help but ask.

               "Yes," Stark said, and there was actually wonder in his eyes as he looked at Steve.  "You're still upset with me.  I can tell.  But it's only been a few months for you, and… you're right to be upset."  Steve blinked at this, because this wasn't how their last conversation had gone.  "But Christ, Steve.  It's been ten years for me.  I mourned you when I thought you died."

               Steve didn't know what to say to that.

               "Anyway," Stark continued before the silence could stretch on for too long, "now that you've woken up, we can continue with the plan.  Get you to Bethesda.  Find a way to fix this damned thing."

               "The influenza vaccine took years to develop," Steve said.

               "Then we'll take years.  What choice do we have?"

               That was a good point, and Steve nodded, accepting this.  But there were still a few missing pieces.  "I don't understand, though," he said.  "How did everyone get infected in the first place?"

               At this, Stark froze up, looking away.  "I," he began.  "I don't think I can tell you that yet."

               Steve frowned.  "You said you'd tell me everything."

               "Yes," Stark agreed, running a hand through his hair.  "But I guess you'll have to make a liar out of me.  I just… I wasn't expecting you to wake up today, of all days, and… I need time.  I'm sorry."

               "Okay," Steve said.  Half an hour ago, he might have gotten upset at Stark keeping more secrets from him.  But hearing what he'd gone through… it would be okay, he thought, if he waited.  "Different question, then.  That woman.  Obviously that… change triggered in her.  But she wasn't _dead_.  You didn't have to kill her."

               Stark sighed, and for a moment Steve was afraid he was going to delay this response, too.  "First off, that wasn't a question, that was a judgment.  Second, you didn't seem willing to push her off, and if you hadn't, she would have bit you.  Third, she only counted as alive in the most technical sense.  She was dead already in every way that mattered."

               Steve considered it.  "I'm probably immune."

               "I'm not going to risk that."

               "Then how do we know that finding me is actually going to do any good?"

               Stark glared at him.  "We don't.  But I'm not risking that.  We'll find out when we get there."

               That didn't sound like a very reliable plan, but Steve supposed he wasn't exactly keen on getting himself bit to see what would have happened.  "So back to the dead part, then.  How do we know it's not reversible?"

               Stark sighed again, shaking his head.  "Because we already looked into it.  Once you turn, you start… rotting.  All the bits of your brain responsible for high-level thought just… waste away.  There's no going back.  And I know what you're going to say next, so—"  Stark cut off, getting up to put all the candles out.  "Look outside, Steve."

               What on earth…?  Frowning, Steve got up, making his way to the curtains and pulling them aside, inhaling sharply as he looked past them.  The sun had long since set, but he could still make out several shapes shuffling about in the snow—and now that he was no longer listening to Stark talk, he thought he could hear… moaning.  A lot of moaning.

               "They'll probably disperse by morning, but they were drawn here by the noise," Stark said softly.  "And this is just a small number of them when it comes to the big picture.  We're smarter than them, but each one is capable of tearing me, if not necessarily you, apart if the cards fall right.  If I have a chance to even the numbers by even just a little, I'll take it."

               Steve let the curtains drop shut, turning back toward the table.  "They're still people, Stark."

               "You can't tell me you never killed a man during the war, Steve."

               "It's not the same."

               "It's not," Stark agreed.  His voice was hard.  "The people who died during the war were still capable of missing the family they left behind."

               That was a low blow, and Stark surely knew it.  "You do what you have to," Steve said.  "But I'm not you, and I won't do the things you've done."

               Stark didn't respond for a long moment.  "You should get some more rest," he said at last, dropping the conversation.  "I'm going to catalog and pack our things, and tomorrow we'll start heading south."

               Steve had _been_ getting rest, he wanted to say—ten years' worth of it, in fact—but he held his tongue and nodded instead, though he wasn't even sure if Stark could see him.  What was the point in staying up if they were just going to snipe at each other?  He headed back to the bed he'd been lying in and sighed.  "You get some rest too," he said finally.  Stark had looked like he needed it.

               "Mmm," Stark replied, but otherwise said nothing as he lit one candle and went to the shelf of food.

               Steve lay down on the bed and stared blankly at the ceiling, trying not to think about the woman's brains splattered all over the snow.  It was going to be a long, long night.

 

*

 

"I'll miss this place," Stark said, his voice almost fond as he looked around the little cabin.  The sun was rising, the… injured people had dispersed, and it was about time to leave.  "We may not have running water again for some time."

               That wasn't a particularly pleasant thought, but it wasn't as though Steve hadn't had to make do without running water during the war.  "Which way we headed?" he asked.

               "West."

               Steve blinked.  He was pretty sure they were up north, so wouldn't they need to go south?

               Stark caught his expression and grinned, even though Steve couldn't help but notice how his every emotion seemed to be tinged with exhaustion.  "Yeah, west," he repeated.  "We're in Mulgrave, on the eastern end of Nova Scotia."

               "This is _Canada_?"

               "Nice, isn't it?  Locals could be friendlier, though."  When Steve continued to gape at him, Stark just chuckled and shrugged.  "We're lucky Namor even brought us back to land," he said.  "I'm pretty sure he would have been content to toss me overboard and keep you all to himself."

               "That does sound like Namor," Steve had to admit.

               "See?" Stark said.  "Now let's get a move on.  We've got a thousand miles to go, and I mean that literally."

               And so they left, quietly following the road and heading west; Steve was trusting Stark to lead them true.  Despite the way Stark had come off last night, he didn't seem as eager to kill as Steve had feared, preferring to quietly evade anyone they came across instead of attacking them.  As a result, leaving the cabin was actually much less eventful than Steve had expected, but he supposed that was a good thing.  Maybe that one woman would be the only one who died by their hands.

               "We should find bikes eventually," Stark said once they'd been on the road for a few hours.  The land around them was flat, albeit covered with snow, and visibility was clear.  "Not right now, obviously, since they'd be useless.  But once we're somewhere with less snow, that's the first thing we should look for.  Nothing's better than traveling by bike when the world's ended."

               Steve glanced over at him.  He supposed Stark would know best, having actually been conscious for the past decade.  Still, he couldn't help but ask, "Not even flying?"

               For some reason, Stark winced.  "…I do love flying," he admitted after a moment.  "And I miss it.  But I don't have my suit anymore."

               "You never did tell me why."

               Stark flapped one hand.  "Loud," he said briskly.  "Can't stay in the air forever, and with the noise I'd probably get mobbed whenever I landed."

               Steve's brow furrowed.  "So… what? You just ditched the whole thing?"

               "Something like that."

               Stark's words didn't quite add up—Steve _knew_ how much Stark loved that suit, so why would he just toss it aside because of some noise?—but he decided not to press.  He supposed it didn't really matter, anyway.  Stark didn't have his suit, and that was the end of it.  "What about your heart?"

               Stark shrugged.  "Same renewable power source as the last time you saw it," he said.  "The fusion reactor is fine.  Some things haven't changed."

               But everything else had.  "Okay," Steve said.  "Well… I'm glad you won't be keeling over.  I'm still upset about… before, but I do prefer you alive."

               "Good to know," Stark replied, and they both went silent.

               It was strange, Steve thought, where their relationship was right now.  Things between them had been so different not that long ago—well, not that long ago for him, anyway.  And then Steve had been so _angry_ , and even now Stark was saying he'd apparently been right to be upset—whether it was because of the Jericho or something else, Steve wasn't sure.  Stark's reveal about Pepper's fate had made him disinclined to ask too much about the past for the time being.  In any case, now Steve didn't know how to feel toward the other man; there wasn't enough room, he thought, for anger after everything.  He supposed he was just resigned to the fact that Stark was who he was, for better or for worse.  And despite what had happened, at the very least he agreed with Stark on what they had to do next, and he would see things through to the end.

               The days passed without too much incident, the two of them trekking quietly through snow-covered roads that had long since been abandoned and walking past that buildings nature was slowly beginning to reclaim.  There were bodies—several of them—that they passed by, with Stark jabbing the heads of any that were close enough with an ice pick.  "I'm not risking getting ambushed," he'd explained, and Steve supposed he understood.

               The first time they came across a fallen soldier, Steve reached down, despite Stark's protests, and pulled off the man's dog tags, stowing them into his pocket.  "Steve, there's no one left to return them to," Stark had said gently.  When Steve didn't reply, he continued, "And you're not going to have room to carry them all."  Steve had just kept walking.

               When they came across an abandoned ad-hoc military base that was littered with bodies with head injuries so obvious that Stark didn't even bother to jab them, Steve had to admit that maybe Stark was right.  Still, as Stark went to forage for supplies, Steve went to each soldier anyway, collecting their tags and pocketing them.

               If Steve had thought he was dreaming when he'd first woken up, he thought as he gathered his fiftieth tag, he would have stopped by now.  His imagination could have never been this cruel.

               For two weeks, that was how things went.  They'd walk, they'd stop, they'd eat, they'd sleep.  At night, Steve looked at his tags and thought of the soldiers who'd once worn them.  How hard it must have been these last ten years, when Steve was sleeping the end of the world away.  If he'd been awake, if he'd never fallen into the ocean—would things have been different?  Would he have been able to help these men?

               At the end of the two weeks, they crossed the Saint John River, and just like that, they were on American soil.  The homecoming was not nearly as sweet as Steve had imagined back when the war was still raging, and yet—he felt something inside him relax at being _home_ again, despite the rusted signs and the lack of people he could communicate with.

               "It's going to get harder now that we're actually heading south, and the weather's warming up," Stark said as they walked past a sign proudly proclaiming that they were entering the Moosehorn National Wildlife Refuge, not that such labels carried much meaning anymore.  "The biters don't do so well in the cold, which is why we haven't seen nearly as many as we could have.  It worked out well up to this point, but obviously that's not going to be the case anymore.  Keep your guard up, Steve."

               It was the most Stark had said in several days, though Steve hardly minded.  They weren't here to talk, after all—they'd done all the talking they could stand ten years ago.  "Okay," he said, and they continued onward.

               The warning proved useful, though, because a few hours later, Steve heard a sound he might have wrote off before, but this time he stopped in his tracks, throwing an arm out to halt Stark as well.  "We're not alone," he said softly, pausing to draw his shield.  Beside him, Stark brought out a sharpened shovel—his preferred choice of weapon when it came to the biters, Steve had learned.  Melee weapons, Stark had told him, didn't need to be reloaded or recharged, and that meant everything in a world with limited resources.

               Somewhere ahead of him, Steve could hear breathing.  It took a second for him to realize the significance, though once he did, he gasped, his eyes going wide.  Breathing meant people, regular people—something he hadn't seen since waking up, Stark excepted.  "I'm going to announce our presence," Steve murmured.

               Stark made a choked sound.  "Are you crazy?" he hissed.  "This is dangerous!  They could be armed!"

               "They're people," Steve hissed back.  "We're in this together."  Before Stark could dissuade him further, Steve stepped away, lowering his shield.  "Hey," he said loudly to the trees around him.  "We know you're here.  But it's alright.  We're friendly."

               There was the sound of furious whispering, and then one voice spoke.  "You're damn right we're here," said the voice.  "And if you want to live, you'd better drop your weapons."

               From the corner of his eye, he could see Stark's eyes narrowing as he reached for his rifle, drawing it out in one fluid motion.  "Like hell."

               "Stark, no!"

               "Listen to the boss, _Stark_ ," the voice said.  "That's what you lackeys do, right?"

               "What?" Steve said as someone else cried out, "Luke, the shield!"

               The forest suddenly fell silent.

               After a few very long moments, a man stepped out from behind the foliage, hands held up as a woman holding something followed him, eyes wide.  "That's Captain America's shield," the woman said, staring at it.

               Steve blinked and glanced at Stark, who lowered his weapon.  "Yes," he said, looking back at the two strangers.

               It was the man who spoke next.  "You're not Burnside."

               "Er," Steve said.  He had no idea who that was.  "No, I'm not."

               Stark stepped forward.  "That's because this man is actually Captain America," he said with an easy smile, clapping Steve on the shoulder.  Steve frowned, feeling oddly put on display, but it was clear these people had heard of him, and if it stopped them from killing each other, then he wasn't going to question it.

               The woman audibly gasped.  "We thought you were dead."

               Steve exhaled and gave them a wry smile.  "I've heard that before, yeah," he said.  "And… you two are…?"

               "Luke," said the man, who lowered his arms and walked toward them, one hand extended.  Steve clasped it and gave it a firm shake.  The man—Luke—seemed to hesitate afterward, but eventually offered his hand to Stark, who raised an eyebrow but accepted it.  "And this is my family."

               "Jessica," supplied the woman, who shook their hands as well.  "And here's Danielle."  She tilted her arms, exposing a slumbering baby swaddled in blankets.  Steve was impressed that she had apparently slept through the whole exchange.  She glanced at Stark.  "And you are…?"

               "This guy calls me Stark," Stark said, tilting his head toward Steve, who just sighed.  "But I'd prefer Tony."

               "It's nice to meet you, Tony.  Captain."  Jessica inclined her head toward them both.  If either of them thought about Stark Industries, they didn't mention it.  To Stark's credit, he didn't seem particularly put-out by the thought, or lack thereof.  "We're sorry we were hostile earlier.  We've been on the run."

               Stark grimaced.  "There's not a herd nearby, is there?"

               "I wish it was just a herd," Luke muttered, shaking his head.  "It's a community a few miles south of here, holed up inside a school.  Run by a guy named Burnside."  He frowned at Steve.  "Looks a lot like you."

               That explained some of the things Luke had said earlier during the standoff, at least.  "So what kind of fella is this Burnside?" Steve asked.  "Stark and I are headed south.  Should we be steering clear?"

               "Depends on your supplies," Jessica said, exchanging a look with Luke.  "If you have plenty, then you can afford to steer real clear.  But if you're running low and you need things… they've picked everything around here clean.  Which means that the school is the only place with food in the entire area.  But if they see you, it won't be pretty.  They'll catch you and put you into forced labor.  I mean, you can eventually work your way up, and you'll never worry about being hungry, but…"

               Jessica trailed off, and Luke picked up the thread.  "What Jess is too polite to say is that Burnside is fucking crazy," he said, jabbing the air with a finger.  "He calls himself the Grand Director and he won't shut up about the 'terrors' of communism.  Communism!  Like any of us give a shit about that when government doesn't exist anymore."

               "I thought the Soviets were our allies," Steve said.

               Everyone stared at him, and Stark was quick to jump in.  "Sorry, he's behind on his history lessons," he said.  "I'll fill him in later.  Go on."

               "Right.  Well, none of that was enough for us to leave.  Say what you would about him, but that school was damn safe.  Until Jess gave birth, anyway."

               "Turns out he doesn't like 'race mixing'," Jessica said.  Luke spat on the ground.  "He didn't realize Danielle was Luke's child until I had her.  But when he did, he wanted to get rid of her."  She held Danielle to her chest protectively, and Steve tried his best not to feel ill.  The world had been turned upside-down, and yet people continued to hold on to the same misguided opinions that they'd had before.  "Our friends helped us get out of there, and the last thing we want to do is go back.  But none of us knew how few resources there were out here."  Her voice broke, but she continued, "Danielle's going to die if we don't get something for her."

               Stark stepped forward and offered his bag to her.  "So take this and spare yourself the trip," he said.  Steve blinked, and for a second he could see the old Tony shining through, the one Steve had fallen for in the first place all those years ago.  Stark glanced at him, his face unreadable before he broke into a wide smile.  "What?" he said.  "I can't resist a pretty face.  I'm talking about Danielle, obviously."

               "Oh," Jessica said faintly, but she stepped back, holding up a hand.  "This is too kind.  But we can't."

               "We insist," Steve said.

               "We don't doubt it," Luke replied.  "But the thing is, two grown men ain't going to be carrying around baby formula, are they?"

               That… was a good point.  Steve wasn't entirely sure what was in the bag Stark had offered, but he remembered them finding beef jerky and cans of chili recently, which probably wasn't the greatest thing to feed a newborn.  "Does this Burnside have baby formula?" he asked.

               "He's got everything," Luke said.  "I've seen the storage rooms.  We were gonna break in and get what we needed."

               Steve glanced at Stark, who nodded, then looked back at Luke and Jessica.  "We'll help, then."

               Luke laughed aloud at this, shaking his head.  "You're kidding me.  _Captain America_ is going to tag along and help us steal things."

               "If it helps, I don't think I have an official title anymore," Steve offered.  "I'm just Steve."

               "Well, 'just' Steve, if you're serious, we'd be idiots to turn you down."  Luke looked at Stark.  "And you're okay with this?"

               "I want to see how much Burnside looks like Steve," Stark said as Steve rolled his eyes.  "Definitely count me in."

               Jessica stepped forward, motioning with her head.  "Then let's get to a safer spot and make a plan," she said.  "We're too exposed out here."

               Together, Luke and Jessica gathered their things, then led them to the makeshift shelter they'd been staying in, which was mostly just a few logs that were arranged in such a way to provide them with a modicum of protection.  "It's not much," Jessica said apologetically.

               "No kidding," Stark replied as they sat down, glancing around.  "I'm pretty sure I could build you something better with my bare hands.  Could I?"

               "They're not staying here long-term, Stark."

               "And this is a preserved wildlife refuge, so minimal human interference," Luke added, then continued, when everyone turned to look at him, "I'm just reading the signs, man."

               Stark held up his hands.  "Okay, okay," he said.  "No building.  So what are we up against?"

               Jessica cleared a spot in the dirt and started to sketch out a rough map with a stick, detailing the locations of the storage, the exits, and the guards, as well as a blind spot that they'd used to escape, which they could also probably use to get back in.  "If we time it right, Peter—one of our friends—he'll be the one on watch here," she said, making an X in the dirt.  "He'll probably let us in.  Then we just grab what we need and go."

               "Sounds straightforward enough," Steve said.  Of course, he'd had his fair share of unexpected turns of events, but he was adept enough at working around them.  "So which of you two is going?"

               "What?" Luke said at the same time Jessica answered, "Me."

               Luke turned to furrow his brows at Jessica.  "Why can't we both go?"

               "We can't bring Danielle in.  And if something happens out here, you're better able to protect her on your own than I would.  Besides, I'm smaller than all of you.  That might be useful."

               She held Danielle out.  Luke stared at the baby, then sighed before accepting her.  "I swear to God if you don't come back…"

               "No swearing in front of the baby," Jessica said.

               "Yeah, yeah," Luke muttered.  "So… what?  You leaving now?"

               Steve glanced at Stark, then Jessica, who nodded.  "Guess so," he said.  "We'll back before you know it, Luke."

               "You better.  Now get outta here so you don't make liars out of yourselves."

               And so they left, though not until after Jessica and Luke had shared a kiss that made Steve avert his eyes while Stark just raised an eyebrow and smirked.  Jessica led them through the trees and onto a road, keeping an eye out for any danger.  Fortunately, there was none—according to Jessica, a herd had passed by three weeks earlier, and any biters that had previously been around had more or less gotten swept up in it, though there would likely still be a few stragglers.  But they managed not to encounter any, and almost two hours later they were in front of a building labeled as the Lee School.  "This is it," Jessica said as she crouched behind a fence, peering out at it.  "Funny.  I don't see the guards on the roof."

               "Maybe they're on the other side?" Steve tried.

               "No," Stark said.  "Look."

               He was pointing at the ground.  Steve followed his gaze, his eyes going wide as Jessica gasped.  There were bodies there, the concrete beneath them red with blood and bodily matter.  "Jesus," he breathed.  Beside him, Jessica turned and buried her face in her hands.

                But that, Steve realized with growing horror, wasn't even the worst of it.  He held his breath for a moment, then let out a sharp exhale.  "Do you hear that?" he asked quietly.

               Stark's eyes went wide.  So he could hear it, too—the muffled, irregular thumping against the doors, as though there were bodies being jostled against it without any particular purpose.  "If everyone inside's turned, then that changes the plan."

               "Don't," Jessica said weakly.

               Steve stood, securing his shield against his back.  "Human enemies are one thing, but biters are another," he said.  He still hated the nickname—calling them _biters_ was so dehumanizing, but he couldn't deny that there was a clear difference between the two, even if they were still human to him.  "I'll climb the wall and get what we need.  You stay here."

               Jessica's head shot up, her eyes angry despite the fact that she was still obviously reeling from the realization that everyone in the school had likely turned.  "Are you crazy?" she asked.  "You're only here because of _my_ daughter.  I can't let you go in alone."

               "And a little backup never hurt anyone," Stark pointed out.  "I'm not letting you run off on your own if we have other options."

               "Like what?" Steve said.  They were wasting time.  "Opening the front doors _isn't_ an option.  Luke's out there in the forest and I'm not going to make things harder for him by unleashing a building of biters onto him."

               "Sound," Stark tried.  "Lure them to one side of the school and go in on the other."

               "That'll attract biters from outside."

               Stark let out his breath in a soft hiss, turning to gaze in the direction they'd come from.  "Be right back."

               Steve considered grabbing his arm but eventually decided against it, watching him go.  "I should go in while he's gone," he said.

               Jessica turned to glare at him.  "And what, you think I'd just let you do that?  He's your friend, isn't he?  You should trust him!"

               "He's not—" Steve began before stopping himself and sighing.  She didn't need to be burdened with his personal problems.  "Fine.  We'll wait."

               So they crouched there in silence, Jessica turning every now and then to look at the bodies on the asphalt as Steve tried not to think about his non-relationship with Stark.  Soon enough, the man in question returned, his hands covered in what looked like plant matter.  "Sound," Stark said as he got closer.  "And smell.  Biters are blind, so that's how they're drawn to humans."

               Steve looked at the gunk in his hands.  "Is that moss?" he asked.

               Stark followed his gaze.  "Well, since sound is out of the question, smell's all we've got left," he said.  He then set the moss down, pulling out a ball of twine from his pack and unwinding the threads.  "So here's the plan.  If the biters are all still trapped in the school, it's a safe bet the doors are secure.  So we go in through a window.  But if there were as many people in the school as Jessica said, then there'll probably be biters at the window, too.  And that's where our friend, the ball of moss, comes in."

               Jessica frowned down at the moss.  "Do biters think moss… smells bad?" she ventured after a moment.

               "Not at all," Stark replied as he started mixing the threads of twine into the moss.  "But they're not very fond of smoke."

               "So you're making a smoke bomb," Steve said.

               "Bingo."  Stark did something more with an additional length of twine and some lighter fluid, then held the ball up for them to examine.  It looked extremely unimpressive.  "Don't everyone swoon at once," he said.  "Anyway, this is our ticket in.  We'll be vulnerable when climbing inside, so this will distract the biters until we can get into a classroom or something, and then we'll make our way to the cafeteria from there."

               Steve couldn't help but continue to stare at the moss dubiously.  "And this'll really work?"

               "It's not a machine, but I know my weapons," Stark said, glancing at him.  "You know this, Steve."

               Steve sighed, deciding not to answer that.  "We need to find a good entry point," he said.  "Let's go."

               In silence, the three of them stood, Steve taking point this time as they approached the building and made their way to the closest window.  From behind him, Jessica whispered, "There's something on the edges that wasn't there when we left."

               Stark moved closer, letting out a low whistle.  "That's hydraulic cement," he said, glancing over at the next window as well.  "Christ.  Someone went and sealed all the exits."

               "Oh, God," Jessica breathed.

               Steve was suddenly reminded of some of the things he'd seen during the war, his fists clenched as he thought about it.  That people were capable of such malice… "We'll have to break a window, then," he said as he continued following the walls of the school.  "That won't be quiet."

               Stark peered through the next window they passed by, motioning for them to stop.  "This one seems clear."

               "For now."  Steve looked through as well—from what he could see, Stark was right, and the hallway beyond seemed empty.  "Stand back."  He drew his shield and then in one quick motion, shattered the glass with a loud crack that was impossible to miss.

               A second later, something fell on them from above.

               Jessica screamed as Stark swore loudly, and for a moment, everything was chaos as they moved to avoid the thing, only to have something else drop near them right after.

               "They're coming from the roof!" Stark hissed, jabbing his ice pick at the first biter and cursing when it missed and went through its cheek instead.

               "We have to get inside!  Jessica, go!"

               "The shards against the window—"

               "I'll boost you over them!"  Steve held his shield up in time to deflect a third biter and dashed over to the window, positioning the shield in such a way that she could step on it.  "Go!"

               Jessica slashed at the closest biter with her knife, then scrambled to her feet, running to the window and jumping through with Steve's help.   If their lives weren't in danger, he might have taken time to admire her agility.  "Cap, they're coming this way!" she shouted from inside.

               Damn it.  Steve hurled his shield straight at the biter currently struggling with Stark, throwing it off of him as Stark blinked in surprise.

               "Help Jessica!" Steve snapped.

               Stark hesitated but ultimately went inside without complaint.  "Stay low on the ground," Steve heard him tell her, and suddenly smoke erupted from the window.

               Steve, still outside, turned to look at the two surviving biters—the last one had hit its head upon falling and was no longer moving.  He should take them down, he thought.  After all, he knew full well by now that once they'd reached this point, there was no going back.  If the three of them came back out through this window, leaving the biters alive could cause them problems.

               He raised his shield.  Then a glossy black-and-white photo poking out of the closest biter's breast pocket caught his eye—"I can't," he whispered to himself, and he followed Stark and Jessica through the window.

               Everything was gray.  Steve flattened himself on the ground, eyes stinging as he slowly shuffled ahead, avoiding the shambling feet of the biters passing by him.  There was no sign of the other two; instead, there was only a long hallway with lockers lining the walls.  He wasn't sure how fast it took for someone to turn once they were bitten, so he could only hope that neither of them was currently stumbling through the hall with the other biters.

               The smoke thinned just as the hall split into two, and Steve held back, needing to decide what to do before he lost his cover.  At that moment, a biter tripped over him, and though Steve was quick to throw it off, it was too late—the others had noticed and were rapidly approaching.  Steve held his shield out and bowled through them, nearly running into a wall when the hallway ended.  On a lark, he went right, spotting a classroom door almost immediately after and throwing himself inside.  He kicked out blindly, and not a moment too soon—his foot made contact with the door, and it slammed shut just as the biters started thumping against it from the other side.

               "Oh," said a voice, and Steve almost jumped before realizing it was just Stark.  He was holding an ice pick, standing over the fallen bodies of two biters.  "Christ.  I was half-afraid they'd figured out how to turn knobs.  Thank God you made it."

               Steve took a deep breath, leaning against the door when he heard the biters continuing to thump against it.  They were going to break through if they kept this up.  "Where's Jessica?" he asked.

               Stark looked uncomfortable.  "I lost her," he admitted.

               Steve's first instinct was to be angry, but the biters banged hard against the door again, and he realized how irrational he was being.  Stark—Stark brought out a lot in him, sometimes.  "You didn't lose her," he said.  "Visibility was low.  It's fine.  We'll find her."

               There was a pause as Stark looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end he just nodded and ran his fingers through his hair.  "Right," he managed.  "But we need a plan.  The door obviously isn't an option, and if we leave through the window we'll be back at square one, except worse, because we have no Jessica or smoke bomb."

               There was another thump.

               "If you held the door open enough to let their heads through, I could use the ice pick and—"

               " _No_ ," Steve said.

               They were spared from further conversation when a rustling sound came from above, and long brown hair spilled from a sudden gap in the ceiling tiles.  "Finally," Jessica said, rubbing some of the dirt off her face as she peered down at them.  "I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find you guys."

               Steve exhaled sharply in relief as he looked up at her.  "What happened?"

               Jessica might have shrugged, though from the angle it was hard to tell.  "I got stuck in a different room, so I went up into the ceiling and went around looking for you guys," she said.

               "Think we can get up there, too?"

               "No," Jessica said, shaking her head.  "There are too many cables and things up here.  It's a tight fit, even for me… and I'm not sure if the ceiling tiles can hold your weight, anyway.  But listen, I have a plan.  If I go left from this room, I can start making a lot of noise.  Draw the biters away.  And you two can go right and head for the cafeteria.  I'll meet you there, okay?"

               Stark looked up at her dubiously.  "Will you be alright up there?"

               "I'd definitely rather be up here than down where you are," Jessica replied with a soft snort.  "I'll just be slow catching up, that's all.  Look, there's not much time—I gotta go now.  Remember, head for the cafeteria!"

               With that, she disappeared from view, and Steve could hear her shuffling above the ceiling tiles, away from them.  A few minutes later, there was the sound of loud banging and shouting, and the sounds of the biters at the door waned.  To be sure, Steve got down on the floor, peering through the gap under the door.  "It's clear," he said to Stark.  "You ready?"

               "Let's go."

               Steve opened the door and was immediately beset by a biter, but he was able to flip it to the side before it could do anything.  The immediate vicinity was otherwise clear, and after making sure Stark was behind him, he started running down the hall, shield out to shove aside any further biters that were coming their way.  It wasn't long until they were standing in front of the cafeteria doors, but the biters visible through the glass panes made it plain that there was still a fight ahead of them.  "We're gonna need to clear a spot so Jessica can get down safely," Steve said.  "Maybe if I lure them out—"

               "Steve—"

               "And you build something with the tables and chairs—"

               " _Steve_."

               Steve blinked.  "What?"

               Stark rubbed his forehead.  "Steve, it's not rational to not kill any of them," he said.  "It was okay when we were just running away, but if we need to secure a place for Jessica that's not going to work out."

               "Says you," Steve hissed.  "Is killing always the first thing you think of?"

               "I lived through this hell for five years!" Stark snapped.

               "Do you want to subject Jessica to a room filled with bodies?  Some of these people were probably her friends!"

               "Yes, and now they wouldn't hesitate to kill her given half a chance."  Stark stepped in close, grabbing Steve's shoulders.  "See reason, Steve!"

               Steve pushed Stark's hands away, glaring at him.  "Fine," he said.  "Do what you feel like you have to do, like you've always done.  I've never been able to stop you, anyway."

               Stark glared back at him in return.  Then he got out his ice pick, gripping it tight before shoving the cafeteria doors open and storming inside.

               God.  He was incorrigible sometimes—all the time, really.  Despite his anger, though, he didn't actually want Stark facing the biters alone, so he took a deep breath and followed in after him before turning away so that he wouldn't have to see Stark killing them all.  For his part, he handled the biters in his own way—striking them in the legs, crippling them and making it harder for them to move around.  As long as he didn't put his feet somewhere stupid, it would be okay.

               Soon enough, he heard more thudding coming from above, and a moment later, a ceiling tile above them slid open.  Jessica appeared, looking dustier than ever.  "Hey," she called.  "Can I come down?"

               "Give me a second," Stark said, and Steve had to turn away again when he heard a terrible squelching sound.  "Steve.  Help me move these things."

               Steve put down the last remaining biter, hesitating a moment before joining Stark by one of the tables and helping him drag it so that it was positioned under Jessica.  They then did the same for a second table, hauling it to sit over the first one.  "It's good to have a super soldier around," Jessica said with a small smile before coming out feet-first, landing on the table and climbing down.  "Thanks, both of you."

               "Sure," Steve said, stepping aside so she could get down onto the ground, where she shook out her hair and frowned at the black grease and dust on her hands.

               "Well, that was disgusting," she said, turning to face a door in the back of the cafeteria before freezing.  "Oh, my God."  Before Steve could ask her what was wrong, she ran over to one the biters Steve had crippled, kneeling by its side and taking its head into her hands.  It struggled and gnashed its teeth at her, but she seemed unafraid.  Steve watched, ready to act if it attacked her, as she ran a thumb against a grayish cheek, whispering something to herself—"You deserved better, Peter," he thought he heard, and then the next thing he knew, she'd jammed her knife into its skull, and it went still.

               "The hell—" Steve began, but then he felt a hand against his shoulder, turning to see Stark shaking his head at him.  Steve was tempted to keep yelling anyway, but something in Stark's eyes made him go quiet.  It felt so wrong, brutally stabbing what must have once been a friend of hers, but… it was done.  "Now what?" he asked after a moment.

               Jessica rose, looking again at the door.  Steve thought he heard her sniffling, though he decided not to comment on it.  "The food should be in there," she said.  "But…"

               She trailed off.  Steve followed her gaze and understood why—the floor wasn't exactly in the cleanest of states, not after he and Stark had come in, anyway, but there was unmistakably a trail of blood that led into the room.

               "We should be prepared for another fight, then," Stark said quietly.

               Steve glanced at the body Jessica had been kneeling at—Peter's?—and headed for the door.  "I'll go first," he said, pausing once he was in front of it to listen.  He could still hear the moaning of the remaining biters from all around, but he didn't think any of the sounds were coming from inside.  If someone was in there, they were being very quiet.  Carefully, he tried opening the door, but apparently it was locked from inside, because it didn't give.  "Stand back," he told them, and then he kicked the door open.

               "No!" cried an unfamiliar voice.  When the debris settled, Steve could see a blond woman on the floor, weakly backing away from them.  "Don't, I'm bit—"  Then her gaze settled on Steve, and just like that, her whole demeanor changed.  " _You_ ," she hissed as she gripped at the wall, clutching her stomach as she struggled to stand.  "I'm going to fucking finish you—"

               "Carol, don't!" Jessica called, pushing Steve aside and running up to her.  "It's okay.  He's not Burnside.  You're safe."

               The woman immediately slumped onto the ground again, letting out a sound that was a cross between a laugh and a cry.  "Jess?" she tried.  "Jess, the hell are you doing here?  Where's Luke?  Where's Danielle?"

               "They're somewhere safe," Jessica replied, petting Carol's hair.  "I came back to get baby formula.  What happened here?"

               "What do you think?" Carol managed.  "Our 'Grand Director' went nuts.  He sealed all the doors and windows, and… and he started killing people and locking them up in his office.  One at a time."  She paused to wheeze, clutching again at her stomach.  "Then he let them out after they'd turned, and things… escalated.  I found him, we fought, and then I killed him, or at least I think I did…"  Her gaze flickered to Steve.  "But by then it was too late to change anything."

               Jessica turned Carol's gaze back onto herself.  "It's my fault, isn't it," she whispered.  "He did this because we escaped."

               "Don't," Carol snapped.  "It's Burnside's damned fault.  You're not the one who poured concrete on the windows.  I'd help you escape again if I had to."

               "Then let me repay the favor," Jessica said.  She glanced back at Steve and Stark.  "You two—you'd help me get her out, right?  Please—"

               "Yes, of course," Stark began, but Carol spoke over him.

               "I'm _bit_ ," she said.

               That was what she'd yelled when they'd first come in, Steve remembered.  But… "Everyone else here has turned," he said.  "Are you sure you're not just hurt from something else?"

               "Oh, I wish the gaping stab wound in my stomach was my only injury," Carol said, laughing weakly.  "But no, I'm definitely bit."  She carefully stuck out a leg, revealing torn pants and a wound that was festering, but hardly looked like a bite.  "It barely broke the skin," she said.  "That's why I'm still alive.  But between this and bleeding out, I'm not gonna last much longer."  She exhaled softly, looking up at the ceiling.  "Until you came, I guess I just wanted to make sure I wouldn't die by being torn apart by the others.  But…"

               She trailed off.  "Oh," Stark said softly from beside him, while Jessica made a choked sound in the back of her throat.

               "What is it?" Steve asked.

               Carol leaned over so that she could see Steve and Stark.  "Either of you fellas have a gun?"

               "Carol," Jessica said helplessly.

               Stark wordlessly unstrapped his rifle from his shoulders, holding it out to Jessica, who stared at it for a long moment before taking it into her hands.

               "That'll be messy," Carol said.  Steve could tell she was trying to tease from the way her lips curved upward, but there was real fear in her eyes.  "I guess you would've offered something smaller if you had it."

               "I'm sorry."

               "Don't be."  Carol turned to Jessica then, laying a hand against her arm.  "I wish I could've done more."

               "You saved my life," Jessica said.  "Mine and Luke's and the baby's.  I owe you everything."  She looked down at the gun in her hands.  "And I'll do this for you."

               "Thank you," Carol whispered, and she lay back against the wall and closed her eyes.

               It was then that Steve realized what was about to happen—but again, Stark was there, shaking his head gently, and Steve tried not to feel sick.  He hadn't wanted to believe things had gotten so terrible, but everything he saw was screaming at him otherwise.

               "Steve, Tony," Jessica said, glancing back sideways at them, "start getting supplies.  I'll join you in… in a little bit."

               Steve nodded, and Stark followed him as they walked past Jessica and Carol to find boxes and boxes of packaged goods.  Stark went up to one of them, placing a hand against the box and letting out a low whistle.  "I can see why people stuck around, even if the guy was a little nutty," he said.  "It's worth listening to some cock-eyed crap if it means not starving."

               "Is it?" Steve asked dubiously, opening up one box to find a whole selection of MREs.  "Sounds like they gave up their liberty for safety, and in the end they didn't even get that."

               Stark glanced at him.  "Are you blaming them?"

               "Jesus," Steve said.  "No.  Of course not.  I blame Burnside.  I just… I wish things turned out differently."

               "Don't we all," Stark replied softly.

               Any further conversation was halted by the sound of a gunshot, and Steve winced, trying to will the ringing in his ears to go away.  Once his hearing had calmed down, he looked back just long enough to make sure the gunshot was what he'd thought it was, then quickly turned his attention to the boxes again, taking a deep breath.  It had happened.  It had really happened.

               A moment later, Jessica came up to them, handing Stark the rifle.  "Thanks," she said, her face ashen and specked with blood.

               Stark slung the rifle back over his shoulders, shaking his head.  "Don't mention it," he said.  "Let's get what we need and go."

               They packed their bags in silence and turned to leave.  Before they stepped through the door, Steve put a hand against Jessica's shoulder.  "Did… did you want to bury her?" he asked.  "I could carry her out of here…"

               Jessica glanced back and swallowed hard.  "That's awful nice of you to offer," she said.  "But it's too dangerous.  She wouldn't want that.  It's—it's fine, though.  She… gave me her dog tags.  I'll bury those."

               "She served?"

               "Colonel in the Women's Army Corps," Jessica replied.  "I didn't know her then.  But after we met she told me she missed flying a hell of a lot."  She sighed and continued, "Let's go before I break into tears."

               They headed back into the cafeteria, stepping around the fallen biters, dead and undead alike.  "Is there anything else worth taking a gander at while we're here?" Stark asked.

               Jessica considered it.  "There… might be medical supplies in Burnside's office," she said after a moment.  "It's not so far from where we came in."

               Steve nodded.  "Where do we go?"

               She gave them directions, and they went on their way, dealing with any biters they came across—fortunately, there weren't many of them, and the halls were relatively clear.  Once they were there, Steve carefully opened the door, shield out.

               There was nothing moving inside.  It did, however, manage to smell more terrible than the cafeteria or anywhere else in the school had, and once Steve was done gagging, he could see why—there was a body of a man lying on the ground, his face smashed into a bloody pulp.

               "Oh, my God," Jessica said as she stepped into the room, Steve and Stark following after her.  "That's Burnside."

               "I don't see the resemblance," Stark said.

               Jessica went to start rummaging through the cabinets—this looked like it had once been an office, rather than a classroom.  "He looks better this way," she said coldly.

               Neither Steve nor Stark replied to that, instead following her lead and looking around.  True to her word, there were medical supplies here—not a lot, but it was still enough to be helpful if they ever needed it.  "All done?" Steve asked once they'd closed their bags, glancing at them both.  "We'll leave out the same window.  I'll boost you guys again."

               There was a pause.  Then Jessica rushed to Burnside's body, knife flashing, and started to stab him repeatedly until Stark dashed forward, pulling her back.  "Jessica," he said.  "It's over.  He's dead."

               "He killed them!" she cried, struggling against his grip.

               Steve stepped forward, helping Stark hold her back.  "Stark is right," he told her softly.  "This isn't going to do anything.  Save your energy for the trip back, okay?"

               Jessica struggled for a moment longer and then finally went limp, taking a deep, shuddering breath before nodding.  "Fine," she said, and Steve pulled back, Stark following his example.

               They left the room—there wasn't a hoard of biters waiting outside this time, so it was much easier—and headed back to the window, clear now of smoke.  Steve took care of the few biters milling about before kneeling by the window, holding up his shield.  Jessica went through, followed by Stark.  Steve was last, coming out in time to hear fabric tearing and Stark cursing.  "What happened?" he asked as he landed.

               Stark waved a hand at him before crouching down to pick up some of the fallen items.  "Old bag.  Don't worry about it—I can hold it together until we get back, and then I'll patch it up."

               "Sure," Steve said, bending over to pick up a bottle of pills.  "Here—"

               Before he could say more, there was a sudden movement; one of the previously-still biters on the ground lunged toward Stark, who let out a surprised sound, kicking it away and stumbling backward.  Steve quickly threw his shield to break the biter's legs at the same time Jessica swiped at it, missing the first time but hitting her mark on a second try, twisting the knife hard.

               "Stark, you okay?" Steve asked as he captured his shield.

               "Yeah, just—"

               And then a second biter attacked, its teeth sinking into the fabric of Tony's sleeve.  For a second, Steve's world went still, and he could see nothing but Tony and the biter, Tony looking desperate as he blindly reached for his ice pick, struggling to pull his arm away—

               "No!" Steve cried, throwing his shield hard.  It decapitated the biter, and he watched in horror as the body slumped onto the ground first, the head remaining attached to Tony's sleeve for a second longer before dropping as well, a scrap of fabric clinging to its teeth.

               The shield skidded to the ground a few feet away.  Steve stared at it, at the formerly metallic sheen now covered in dark muck that Steve wasn't even sure was blood—but that didn't matter.  What did matter was Tony kneeling in the dirt, his face paler than Steve had ever saw it.  Steve turned away from the shield, rushing over to his side and getting onto his knees as well, taking Tony's arms.  "Are you okay?" he asked again, inspecting the wrist with the missing sleeve.  It… looked okay, but Steve needed to hear it from him.

               Tony blinked slowly, his gaze falling onto his wrist, seeing the thankfully unbroken skin.  "Yeah," he said.  "It… it just got my sleeve, that's all.  I was careless.  I'm sorry."

               "Don't," Steve said, his throat going dry.  It was his fault.  He'd been wrong, and Tony had almost paid for it with his life.  "I thought… I knew they were dangerous, but—"

               "Stop it, Steve," Tony said gently.  "We all learn this lesson, sooner or later.  You were just five years behind."

               Steve exhaled sharply and made himself let go of Tony's arms.  "I almost killed you."

               "To be fair, a lot of people can say that."

               "Jokes?  Really?"

               Tony glanced to the side, his face inscrutable.  "I missed knowing you cared," he said, so softly that Steve wasn't even sure his intention was to actually say it aloud.  When he next spoke, his voice was clearly meant to be heard.  "I'm fine, Steve.  Let's get Jessica back to her family."

               Steve hesitated, then nodded.  "Sure," he said.  His shield appeared in his field of vision, and he blinked, looking up to see Jessica holding it out to him.

               "Sorry," she said.  "I just… saw a chance to touch it, and I couldn't help myself."

               Steve managed a weak chuckle at that, accepting the shield with a soft thanks as he and Tony both got up.  "Let's get the hell out of here," he said.

               By the time they made it back to the wildlife preserve, night had fallen, though the weather was still chilly enough that the sound of buzzing insects was almost entirely absent.  Or maybe something had happened to them when the infection had started—Steve wasn't sure, and he'd never asked.  From beside him, Jessica pushed forward, eyes searching the foliage.  "Luke?" she called.  "We're back."

               It took a few minutes of this, but eventually something ahead of them rustled, and Luke emerged from the trees, Danielle clutched in his arms and relief plainly written on his face, even in the darkness.  "Thank God," he muttered, starting toward them before abruptly stopping, then rushing forward again.  "Sweet Christmas, what the fuck happened to you?"

               "It's not my blood," Jessica said before running toward him, and then they were kissing and whispering things to each other, Jessica's arms wrapped around Luke tightly.

               Steve took that as his cue to step away, wanting to give them some space.  "We'll be close by," he said—not that he was even sure they heard him, but he nonetheless motioned for Tony to follow him.  He spotted the shelter that Luke and Jessica had been using and decided to pick another location that was far enough to give them some privacy.  Sitting down at long last was a relief—he might have been a super soldier, but Jesus, it was nice to finally get some rest.

               Tony joined him a moment later, having retrieved his shovel—he'd left it behind since it was too much to hold on to during a supply run.  "Oh, darling, am I glad to be reunited with you," he said, pressing a kiss to the handle.

               Tony was ridiculous sometimes, and Steve couldn't help but quirk his lips.  "You okay?" he asked softly.

               "You think my answer's gonna change since the last time you asked me that, oh, I don't know, ten minutes ago?" Tony replied, raising an eyebrow at him.

               "Maybe," Steve said with a sigh.  "Sorry.  I don't know.  A lot happened today, and you were almost bit…"

               "If I knew that was all it took to make you talkative I would have fed myself to a biter a long time ago."

               "Don't even joke about that," Steve managed.  The very thought was horrifying.  "I was scared, Tony.  And _wrong_.  I hate being either of those things."  He sighed again, running a hand through his hair.  "I guess… hearing about Burnside, and what he did… it made me rethink a few things.  He was—he was hung up on things that didn't even _matter_ anymore.  And I realized… I was the exact same way."

               He paused, waiting for a sarcastic comment from Tony.  When none came, he blinked, surprised, but continued speaking.  "I don't think I'll ever agree with what you did during the war, even if it helped end it sooner.  That weapon killed people.  I thought it would open a Pandora's Box.  But look at us now—your favorite weapon is a damned shovel, and we're afraid of people because they can bite us.  Everything's changed.  Understanding that, and seeing people die today—seeing _you_ almost die today… that made me realize that there was no point in holding onto all those things that happened before."

               There was still nothing but silence.  Steve chanced a glance up at Tony, whose expression was… pained?  When their eyes met, Tony quickly looked away, swallowing.  "Steve," he said at last.  "I would have given up anything to hear you say these things ten years ago."

               Steve bit his lip.  "And what changed?"

               Tony exhaled, closing his eyes and leaning back against the tree trunk he was seated against.  "You were right," he said.  "I did open Pandora's Box.  And this is what came out."

               "What do you mean, 'this'?" Steve pressed.

               Tony waved one arm, gesturing at everything.  " _This_.  Us sitting in the woods after raiding a school infested with a bunch of insane people who were barely even human anymore.  Steve… it was me.  The biters were my fault."

               The revelation dropped on him like a heavy weight, and for a moment, Steve could do nothing but stare at Tony blankly.  His fault?  How was that even possible?  Why would Tony ever partake in something so terrible in the first place?  "I don't understand," he managed at last.

               "Then maybe I should start at the beginning," Tony said softly, staring at his feet.  "Zolpidem, ethanol, methylchloride, and ophentonyl.  Do you know what those are?"

               "Chemicals?" Steve ventured.

               "Yes," Tony said.  "But more importantly, they were the base of a formula that could be injected into a person, which… destroyed them from the inside.  It didn't turn them into biters, but it… reprogrammed them.  They kept their knowledge, but they lost all of their identity."

               Steve wasn't sure if it was a good idea to press, but he felt like he needed to.  "You seem like you know a lot about this," he said.

               Tony let out a nervous laugh that was loud enough that Steve could see Luke, a ways off, glancing their way momentarily before turning his attention back to Jessica.  "You could say that," he said.  "I know about it because in 1939, I found out that Hydra used it on my father and turned him into Baron Zemo."

               The name sounded familiar, and Steve searched his memory, trying to place it.  "…He was the antagonist in the last published issue of _Marvels_ ," he said at last.  "But it never said he was your father.  And you—"

               "I killed him," Tony cut in before Steve could say the words himself.  "I killed him because I couldn't let him get away with a weapon that he could use to kill innocent people, and because he wasn't my father anymore.  And I wouldn't have done anything differently."

               Steve thought about Peter and Carol and the things Jessica had had to do.  He thought… maybe he could understand it now, her decision to do what she'd done.  But he prayed to God that such a choice would never be forced onto him.  "Go on," he urged.

               Tony stared at his feet again.  "…Well, I had nightmares for months after that.  I still do, sometimes, when I'm not dreaming about the biters instead.  Can you imagine, Steve?  Having everything you are taken away from you?  The thought terrified me.  It still does.  I'd rather die than let that happen."  He scuffed one foot on the ground, continuing, "And I think the reason I was so afraid was because I knew… Hydra had that power.  They could do this.  They did it to my _father_.  Their only saving grace was that it didn't seem practical or feasible to do it to anyone but people with knowledge they wanted."

               "Until they did," Steve said.  He remembered Tony mentioning at the beginning that this was all Hydra, and it didn't seem unreasonable to believe that if they could make Baron Zemo, they could make the biters.  "…But I still don't understand how you have any part in all this."

               "Don't you understand?" Tony asked.  "I knew they had something potentially world-changing, and—and I didn't do anything about it!  I wasted time being afraid and wallowing in self-pity, and then the war happened and I let myself forget it was something I ever saw.  I think that was actually what I wanted.  I didn't want to deal with a world where this was a reality, and now look at what's happened."

               Steve could hardly believe what he was hearing.  "Do you realize how irrational you sound?  What were you supposed to do?  Kill them all?"

               "Yes!"

               There was a long pause.  Then Tony sucked in a deep breath, turning away.  "…No," he admitted at last.  "But I should have done more than I did."

               "You were using your armor to help people.  And when you weren't doing that, you were building things for our army," Steve pointed out.  Even if Steve disagreed deeply with some of the things Tony had built, he could at least believe that _Tony_ believed it was for the good of their country.

               Tony let out another laugh.  "About that," he said.  "Steve… did I ever tell you how Hydra _spread_ the infection?"

               "You said you couldn't tell me yet when I asked."

               "I think I can tell you now," Tony said softly.  "Not because I want to, mind you.  But you seem dangerously close to forgiving me and I can't have that."  He sighed again, then continued, "Steve, they used the Jericho."

               Steve stared at Tony blankly for a moment, barely able to process it.  It had already been such a terrible weapon to start with, and to hear that it was used to effectively end civilization as they knew it… "I don't understand," he said.  "It wasn't meant for that.  Was it?"

               "God, of course not," Tony managed.  "But they modified the designs that they stole.  Made it more suitable for acting as a biological weapon.  I didn't realize it at the time, but they did some test runs with it near the end of the war… they were working with the Japanese, dropping the plague over China.  Then the war ended, and it seemed like it was all over."  He snorted.  "But it was never over.  A few years later, the biter epidemic happened, and here we are now.  And it's my fault.  It's completely my fault.  I killed us, Steve.  I killed everyone."

               His fault.  This was what Tony had thought for the past five years.  The idea of such a burden was staggering.  How had Tony even survived like this?  "Tony," Steve said, reaching out to take his hands because he was starting to look slightly manic.  "It wasn't your fault."

               Tony's eyes flashed.  "How can you say that?" he snapped.  "This was exactly the sort of thing that you worried would happen when I built the Jericho in the first place!  And you were right!  Look at what it was used for!"  He made a choked sound in the back of his throat, continuing, "I thought I could end the war.  But all I did was start another one."

               "No," Steve said, because even if some of the things Tony was saying touched on the truth, he couldn't let Tony believe he deserved to carry such a weight on his shoulders.  "You weren't the person who made the Jericho into a biological weapon.  You weren't the person who made a damned biter infection to begin with.  For God's sake, this is Hydra we're talking about.  It doesn't matter if they used your design as a starting point or not.  They would have got there anyway.  _It's not your fault._ "

               Tony made another soft sound, weakly trying to pull his hands away.  "Steve, stop," he managed.  "Don't… don't do this to me."

               "Do what?" Steve pressed.  "Tell you the truth?  I'm not going to stop doing that, Tony."

               "Do you even hear yourself?" Tony asked.  "All this fucking time it was Stark, Stark, Stark.  And now all of a sudden I'm Tony again?"

               Steve blinked.  He hadn't even realized he'd been doing that.  Somehow, between leaving for the school and now, Tony… Tony had become more than a travel companion borne out of necessity, and Steve cared deeply about what happened to him.  "Well," he said.  "Do you want me to go back to calling you Stark?"

               "Please don't," Tony whispered far too quickly, looking away.  "I mean—sorry.  No.  I don't."

               "Okay," Steve said, then added for good measure, "It's not your fault."

               Tony went quiet after that, no longer trying to pull away from Steve's loose grip.  A few minutes later, though, he finally spoke up.  "…Thanks," he said, his voice soft.  "I mean… I don't… I don't know if I really believe you yet, but I appreciate that you actually said those things.  I don't think I ever expected that out of you."

               It was Steve's turn to look away this time.  "I was wrong," he said again.  "I think… when we last talked, before I went under the ice, I was too quick to judge.  I saw all of the bad in what you'd done and none of the good.  And once that happened, it was just… so easy to let it build up in my head, to make myself think your intentions were worse than they were.  And it took me seeing you almost die today to realize I'd taken all this too far."  He glanced back at Tony then, meeting his eyes.  "I'm tired of being angry at you.  I miss you.  And no matter what I think of you—and no matter what _you_ think of you—the truth is, we're on the same side.  We always have been."

               Tony gazed back at him.  "I'd like to think that," he admitted.

               "Then think it," Steve said.  "Maybe not today if you can't, but… someday soon, I hope."

               "Okay," Tony replied softly.  Steve didn't know if he really meant it, but… it was a start, at least.

               They both fell silent.  Steve was still holding Tony's hands, but the other man didn't seem to mind, so Steve didn't let go.  It had been a long, long time since he'd done this with him, and… it was nice.  Soothing.  He could hear the ticking of the reactor powering Tony's heart slowly relax.

               It couldn't last forever, though.  Not too long afterward, Steve heard the sound of footsteps approaching, and he looked up to find Luke standing there, looking at them.  He gave them both an odd glance, but nonetheless continued, "If you two are planning to hang around for the night I'll take first watch.  I think the three of you have dealt with enough shit for today."

               Steve would have protested normally, but… Luke was right.  He was drained.  "Thanks," he said, which Tony echoed.  "Wake me in a few hours, then."

               "Sure," Luke said, and ambled off.

               Steve glanced back at Tony.  It was hard to tell in the dark—they hadn't lit a fire—but he thought Tony looked tired, too.  "Let's sleep," he said.

               Tony managed a weak smile.  "Is it too early for me to start making innuendoes again?" he asked.

               That startled a laugh out of Steve.  Was this the first time he'd laughed since he'd come out of the ice?  It… it felt like it.  "Sorry," he said.  "It is.  We can only talk about normal sleeping."

               "I'll ask again later, then," Tony said.  He unrolled his sleeping bag and crawled inside, Steve doing the same with his own.  Once Tony seemed to get comfortable, he rolled over so that he was facing Steve, eyes shining in the dark.  "Steve?"

               "Yeah?"

               "I'm gonna make things right again.  You'll see."

               Steve exhaled quietly.  "Didn't I just get done telling you this wasn't your fault?"

               "Yes," Tony said.  "But that doesn't change anything.  I'm gonna fix this.  Because I refuse to believe that this is the way things are always going to be now."

               "Alright," Steve replied softly.  "Well.  I'm here if you need it."

               "I know."  Tony turned away, letting out a yawn.  "Thank you."

               Steve stared at the back of Tony's head, fighting the urge to run his fingers through his hair.  Tony would appreciate it, he thought.  But that sort of thing wasn't appropriate for them anymore. "Don't thank me," he said.  "I'm just saying something I should have said a long time ago."

               Tony didn't reply.  Instead, a few minutes passed, and Steve heard the soft sounds of snoring—it seemed as though he'd fallen asleep.  Steve decided to follow suit, praying to himself as he drifted off that it would be okay if he trusted Tony Stark again.

 

*

 

Morning came, and with that, it was time to part ways with Luke and Jessica.  Steve shook both of their hands, Tony doing the same.  "Good luck out there," Steve said.  "You heading north?"

               "Yup," Jessica said.  "Hear the biters are less active up there.  We need to find somewhere to settle down for the long haul."

               Tony pulled something from his pack, handing it to them.  "It's a slim chance, but if you can find the cabin that Steve and I stayed in, it might work for you three.  It's marked on the map here."

               Luke took it.  "This is a map of Canada," he said after a moment.  "Damn."

               "You wanted north, this is north," Tony replied.  "And we're right on the border anyway.  But really, it was a nice place when we left.  Working sink and everything."

               "Sounds like a plan."  Luke clapped Tony on the shoulder.  "Thank you both, man.  You probably saved our girl's life.  We won't forget that."

               "Just pass it on if anyone else needs help," Steve said.  "Things are tough out there.  We can't afford to waste time hurting each other."  Tony gave him a glance and a half-smile, nodding along.

               "We won't," Jessica promised.  "Good luck to you both.  It was an honor working with you."

               And then they left, heading up the way Steve and Tony had come from.  Steve watched them go for a while, then hoisted his things and started walking the other way, Tony by his side.  "That was nice," he said.  "Having human contact.  I missed… talking to people."  It was, of course, understood by them both that they'd done a piss-poor job of talking to each other, and Steve knew it was his fault.  Now, maybe, they'd do better.

               "Yeah," Tony agreed as he idly checked his bag—he'd apparently patched it up during his turn at watch.  "Last guy I talked to was Namor.  You should probably know, though, that not all people are nice."

               Steve frowned.  "What do you mean?"

               "I mean there are people out there who will take everything you have if you give them half a chance," Tony said.  "They come in with a wounded gazelle gambit to get you to lower your guard, and then they turn into a damned lion."

               "You sound like you know from personal experience."

               "I was gullible at first," Tony admitted.  "Back when I thought there was still an easy way to undo all this.  Five years later, humanity's on the ropes, and I don't fall for their doe eyes anymore."

               Steve furrowed his eyebrows.  "So what, you just assume the worst out of everyone?" he bit out, annoyed—and then he immediately winced, because he realized just how hypocritical he was sounding.  It wasn't fair to judge Tony like this, especially after the things he'd said last night.  Tony had lived through the past five years, and Steve hadn't.  "Sorry.  Sorry.  I didn't mean it."

               Tony smiled, though it was tinged with sadness.  "Don't worry about it, Steve," he said.  "I'm just trying to say that I got better at recognizing their tells.  And I just want you to be careful, too."

               "Right," Steve said.  "I'll try, I guess.  Thanks."

               They didn't talk much after that, though the silences they shared in the coming days seemed much less tense than before, and Steve was reminded again of what a fool he'd been to cling to his old hurts concerning Tony.  And now when Tony was quiet, Steve thought he could read him better—to reassure him when he sensed Tony's thoughts were straying to darker places.

               There was, however, one point where Steve couldn't quite figure him out, despite how much Tony had shared with him.

               They were in New Hampshire now, making good time after finding a pair of usable bikes.  If they had to go into the woods, the bikes would have to be ditched, but for now riding down streets and sidewalks served their purpose, and Steve appreciated the change of pace.  On this particular evening, they'd found refuge in a two-story home that someone had gone through the effort of fortifying, though whoever it was seemed to be long gone.  Biters roamed the street, but there weren't too many, and in any case—well, Steve knew how to handle them now.

               Tony was sitting on the couch, his shirt off and his heart exposed.  He had paper and a pencil out—visibility was likely terrible, though, given that they only had a few candles lit.  Seeing his heart like that always sent a jolt through Steve, reminding him of how vulnerable Tony was.  "What are you doing?" Steve asked as he sat down beside him.

               Tony blinked, looking surprised as he put the paper away.  Not that Steve could blame him for his shock—while Tony had checked on his heart multiple times since Steve had woken up from the ice, this was the first time Steve had approached him about it.  "Nothing interesting," he said dismissively.

               "Humor me."

               "Really?"  Tony sighed and closed the cover over his heart, obscuring the glow of the fusion reactor inside.  "It's… nothing."

               "Yes, you sounded so convincing just now," Steve said with a frown.  "What were you doing with the paper?"

               Tony shrugged and crossed his arms.  "Doodles."

               Steve had a feeling Tony was being obtuse on purpose, though he couldn't imagine why.  "Is something wrong?" he pressed.  "Is the reactor broken?  Is your heart okay?"

               "The reactor is fine, Steve."

               Now was one of those times Steve wished he were more like Tony, because if he were a smarter man he could take a look and examine the reactor himself.  As things were, though, he could only take Tony's word for it, which… wasn't always entirely reliable.  "Do you always doodle with your heart airing out?"

               "Sure," Tony said, so flippantly Steve was positive Tony was just joshing him.  "I love myself.  That extends to loving the way my heart sounds.  Why wouldn't I try to hear it whenever possible?"

               Steve wasn't sure he'd love to hear a ticking reminder of how his heart would only work with outside help, but he decided not to bring that up, reluctant to damper the mood too much.  He also wasn't sure about the whole loving himself bit, considering that Tony had apparently blamed himself for the entire biter epidemic, but that would be even more of a damper.  "So nothing's wrong?"

               "If I say yes, will you let it go?"

               "No," Steve admitted.  Just the fact that Tony had asked that made Steve want to dig deeper.

               Tony snorted softly, going quiet.  Steve waited patiently, and sure enough, Tony eventually spoke up after a few moments.  "I guess," he said, "I was just thinking about how lucky I was to have the reactor."

               Steve frowned a little, tilting his head.  "Lucky?" he repeated.  "You designed and built the thing, didn't you?  That's not exactly luck."

               "Oh, if that's what you think, I'm happy to play along," Tony replied with a roguish grin.  "Sure. Let's attribute it to my genius, then.  But… still some luck.  The timing, mostly.  If I hadn't figured it out by the time the biters came around, I'd be dead by now.  So I'm fortunate to have this.  A self-renewing power source is a valuable resource, especially these days."

               "And… it's working fine?" Steve pressed, wanting to be sure.

               "It's perfect," Tony assured him.

               "Okay," Steve said.  "So what's the problem?"

               "There _is_ no problem," Tony insisted, but he ended up continuing anyway, "I just—you remember how I told you a long time ago, why I went on all those adventures in the thirties?"

               Steve remembered, and he had a feeling this wasn't going anywhere good.  "Yes," he said.  "You wanted to find a cure for your heart."

               Tony's lips twisted upward.  "That's right.  All that action, all that danger… it was all for my own benefit.  Sure, entertaining the nation was a nice side effect, but… Jesus, Steve.  I was so selfish."

               "Entertainment's no small thing, especially not in difficult times," Steve pointed out.  He still remembered devouring each issue of _Marvels_ , even as he approached adulthood—how could he not, when the pages were more thrilling than anything he could find in a theatre?

               "Maybe," Tony said, but he didn't sound convinced.  "But people _died_ because of my adventures.  If I'd stayed put, nothing bad would have happened to them.  Not by my hand, at least.  I wanted to extend my life, and I cost the lives of others in the process."  He sighed.  "So.  Back to being lucky with my reactor.  I stopped having to constantly recharge both myself and the suit and no one else had to get hurt."  His fingers tapped against his chest idly.  "The thing is, the reactor's not a cure."

               Steve stared at him.  It sounded a lot like Tony was trying to imply something, and Steve wasn't sure he wanted to hear it.  "What are you saying?" he asked at last.  "Are you dying still?"

               "Steve, I'm fine as long as I don't take the reactor out for an extended period of time," Tony said placatingly.  "And if you'll remember, you haven't seen me take it out a single time."  Steve searched his memory, realized that Tony was right, and relaxed a little as Tony continued, "So don't bother your pretty head over it.  It's just something I think about sometimes, that's all."

               "Okay," Steve said, even though he couldn't help but feel as though he was missing something.  "So your—"

               "My reactor is fine," Tony repeated.

               That wasn't actually what Steve had been going for, but he figured he'd pushed this conversation on for long enough.  "Okay," he said again, and he let it drop.

               It wasn't until late at night, as Steve stared into the streets from his watch spot on the second floor and tried to blink the sleep from his eyes, that he realized that not once had Tony ever assured him that his _heart_ was fine.  But then a biter came a little too close to the home for his liking, stealing his attention away—and by the time it ambled off, his original thought had been scattered to the wind, and Steve didn't think of it again.


	2. New York

The days passed by slowly, each day as similar as the last, and Steve found himself grateful for the consistency and the chance to relax a little.  They'd rode their bikes, foraged for supplies when they needed them, and brought out their weapons when they had to.

               It was when they were leaving Milford, Connecticut—or at least, what once was Milford, and was now a silent memorial of deserted apartments and crumbling office buildings like so many others—that they finally encountered one of the herds Steve had heard of, but never seen for himself.

               "Jesus," Tony murmured as he stood beside Steve, gazing south—the direction they wanted to head toward.  The problem was that there was a giant mass of biters slowly lumbering toward them, stretching out as far as the eye could see.  "It's been a while since I've seen such a large group."

               Steve followed his gaze, trying not to think of the fact that each of these biters were once people, people with hopes and dreams and their own stories.  The dog tags he still carried around in his pocket were enough to remind him of the terrible casualties.  "So this is a herd, huh?" he asked.  "Why are they all clumped together like that?"

               "Geography, mostly," Tony said.  "Hills and bridges and the like funnel them together, and then they just kind of…  stay that way.  And now they're headed here."

               "Can we go around them?"

               Tony brought out his map, consulting it for a moment before shaking his head.  "This is where we are," he said, pointing out a spot to Steve.  "We're pretty close to the Housatonic River.  The only place to cross is the Merritt Parkway—which is where they're coming from—unless you want to make a four-mile detour to Route 1 further south, which may or may not have the same issue with biter herds.  And don't suggest trying to cross the river ourselves.  I'm not doing that again."

               Steve frowned at the map, then at Tony.  "Well, what are our options, then?" he pressed.  "Are you suggesting we turn around?"

               "Not at all," Tony said, rubbing his forehead a little.  "There's something else we can do.  But I don't like it, and I'd really rather exhaust our other options first.  Come on, let's ride to Route 1 and see what it's like for ourselves."

               Half an hour later, they got onto Route 1.  There were, happily, no biters on the bridge.

               There was also no bridge, since someone had apparently taken dynamite to it and blown it up.

               "Fuck," Tony said.

               Steve thought about the routes he'd seen on the map.  "We could go back north, where the river branches into the Naugatuck?"

               "We'll have to cross the Housatonic sooner or later," Tony sighed.  "No, let's just go back to the Merritt now.  Just… keep an eye out for any biters that are close by.  We're going to need them."

               "Need them?" Steve repeated, but Tony's jaw had set, and it didn't seem like he was willing to speak more in the immediate future.

               And so they rode back in silence, stopping when they were a couple of miles away from the original crossing.  Tony dismounted, leaning his bike against one of the many abandoned cars on the highway, with Steve following suit.  "We'll have to ditch the bikes," he said, looking unhappy.  "And we still need a biter."

               "There were some we left alive further into Milford," Steve said.

               "Then let's find them."  Shovel out, Tony headed back the way they'd come, and Steve followed after him, unable to do anything but wonder what was in store.

               It wasn't long before a biter stumbled onto the street, and with a practiced motion, Tony took the handle of the shovel and jabbed the tip into the biter's head, sending it sprawling onto the ground, motionless.  Before Steve could ask what next, Tony had yanked off the biter's shirt with the shovel, tossing the fabric aside—and then he made a vertical slice down the biter's body, from neck to navel.

               "There," Tony said, looking nauseated as he knelt in front of it, and then he reached down, pulling the slit he'd made open, and plunged his hands inside.

               Steve stared at him in horror.  By now, he'd fully accepted that sometimes they had no choice but to kill the biters, and that in any case, they were already dead in all the ways that mattered.  But this—this was excessive.  "There _what_?" he managed.

               Tony's hands emerged, covered in blood and… other matter.  Steve had seen a lot of awful things during the war, but this came pretty close to taking the cake.  "Remember what I told you?" Tony asked, his eyes downcast.  His hands were shaking slightly.  "Sound and smell, Steve.  If we smell like this, we don't smell like ourselves."  He started to rub the guts all over his clothes, gaze flickering upward.  "Don't wait.  We don't have a lot of time until they reach us."

               There had to be a better way, but Steve couldn't think of one, so he reluctantly reached down and… scooped some of the gunk up.  It was warm and sticky and the smell was repugnant, but he started to cover himself as well, trusting Tony on this.  "You've done this before," he said quietly.

               "Yes," Tony whispered.

               Whatever had happened when Tony had last done it must have been terrible, and Steve decided not to press.  "Hey," he said.  "It's okay.  We'll get through this."

               Tony nodded tightly but didn't answer.

               When they were both good and covered, they straightened, Steve's breath catching when he saw the herd had rounded the corner, heading right toward them.

               "Walk," Tony uttered.  "And don't make a sound."

               And so they walked.  As they headed straight into the herd, the moaning became almost unbearably loud, and the stench even more so.  Steve could see Tony holding his arm over his nose and mouth, trying not to gag, but when Tony caught him looking, his eyes flashed, and he motioned for Steve to keep his gaze forward, which Steve reluctantly did.  After a few minutes, everything became the same—wave after wave of blank-eyed, ashen faces, of torn clothes and bloodied teeth.  Every now and then, one bumped into him, but Tony's logic had proven true, and apparently they considered him to be one of them, stumbling off uncaringly after contact.

               The bridge appeared beneath their feet.  If the circumstances had been different—if he wasn't surrounded by former people who wouldn't hesitate to tear him apart, if the bridge and the banks of the river weren't littered with empty cars and empty hopes, if the parkway was marked only by yellow and white dotted lines instead of being stained with red—Steve imagined the view from here would have been spectacular, not unlike the quiet moments during the war where Steve would stand in one spot and drink in the sights, his fingers itching for a pen and paper.  But the river was obscured by the mass of biters all around them, and there was no view to be seen.  So Steve plodded on, trying to reassure himself that this couldn't last forever.

               After some time, the biters seemed to thin out, and Steve realized with relief that the end of the bridge was in sight.  But as soon as the thought came to him, Tony vanished from view, and Steve realized in horror that he'd fallen to the ground.  He looked as though he were on the verge of screaming.  Still mindful of the biters close by, Steve held back his exclamation and cautiously stepped toward Tony, kneeling down onto the stone.  "Tony," he whispered.  "Are you okay?"

               The sound Tony had been trying to hold back came out now, and a loud, anguished cry escaped his lips.  From around them, the biters were turning in interest, some slowly lumbering their way.

               There was nothing for it.  Without another word, Steve scooped Tony up into his arms, and then—he ran.

               It wasn't easy.  Neither Tony nor the things he was carrying were light, and it was a struggle to not drop anything.  His saving grace was that the bodily matter they'd smeared on themselves seemed to be confusing the biters, leaving their movements half-aborted despite the pounding of his feet and the sounds Tony was still making.  Steve nonetheless didn't want to rely on that too much, continuing to run as fast as he could down the bridge as it evened out into the road on the other side.  There was, to his relief, a building not too far from them, and he made a beeline for it, finding the door and trying to kick it down—only to have it refuse to give.  But he couldn't run with Tony in his arms forever, and the biters were still following them.

               He was about to keep running anyway when he spotted a fire escape ladder that went up the side of the building, carrying Tony over before realizing that there was no way to get them both up there—not unless Tony wanted it.  "Hey, Tony," he said as he set him down against the building, placing his hands against his shoulder.  "Tony.  You with me?"

               Tony stared at him blankly, and then his eyes squeezed shut, bloodied fists clenching.  "Sal," he said, voice cracking.  " _Sal._ "

               Steve didn't know who Sal was, but he could only assume that they were no longer alive.  "Tony," he repeated, his tone sharper.  "You gotta come back to me right now.  Come on."

               There was no coherent response.  Steve looked behind him and saw the biters again, even closer this time.  "You wanna die here?" he snapped, needing some way, _any_ way, to get Tony moving again.  "Because you will if you just sit here like this!"

               A biter came right up to them, and Steve swung with his shield, hitting it solidly in the head.  It went down, but there were more coming.  "And Tony," he continued with another glance back, "I'll die right here too, because I'm not leaving my men behind, and I'm not fucking leaving you behind, either!"

               Tony's eyes went wide at that.  He finally acted, springing up onto his feet and starting to climb up the fire escape.  Steve took down two more of the biters who had come close, then followed him up, tumbling onto the roof afterward and panting softly.  A glance confirmed that Tony seemed to be okay, though he did seem to be fixated on the grass below, where the biters were crowding around the building.  Steve gave him a few moments, then pressed, "Tony?"

               Tony jolted, then looked back at Steve, chest heaving.  "Steve," he managed.

               Well, that was progress.  Steve reached up, about to run a hand through his hair before remembering that his hands were covered with the remains of another human being and thinking better of it.  "You want to tell me what just happened?"

               "I—" Tony began, and then his throat closed up, and he looked down at his hands, clenching them tight.  "…I'm sorry," he said at last.

               Steve sighed and shook his head.  "Don't be," he said.  "I'm just glad you're okay."

               "No," Tony replied, voice soft.  "I'm not okay."

               He sounded so damned vulnerable right now, and it made something in Steve's chest ache.  "Do you want to talk about it?" he tried again.

               There was a long pause.  Tony looked over the edge of the roof one more time, then got up and made his way to the center before sitting back down, Steve silently following after him.

               "Sal Kennedy," Tony said quietly.  "Botanist.  Smart guy.  A friend who saved my hide more than once.  I met him after the outbreak.  He traveled with me and Rhodey for a while."  He laughed a little, though there was no mirth behind it.  "He was a lot like you at first, actually.  Hated the idea of killing the biters.  Wouldn't do it any under circumstance.  He got bit for his troubles."

               So he was dead, as Steve had suspected.  "Was it because of a herd?" he asked gently, since Tony had gone quiet.

               Tony let out another humorless laugh.  "No.  No, it wasn't.  How he got bit doesn't actually matter, because that wasn't the worst part.  If you have to know, he was trying to help someone who was already beyond help.  In any case, we even watched him die and turn because he didn't want us becoming killers for his sake—even though he'd known that between me and Rhodey we'd killed hundreds of biters already.  And that—that wasn't the worst part, either.  After he turned, we did kill him.  And we buried him because he was our friend.  And that still wasn't the worst part."

               There was again a pause.  Steve remained silent this time, watching as Tony took a few deep breaths, clearly composing himself.  When he next spoke, his voice was rough and broken.  "We saw a herd coming," he said.  ”We were in the middle of nowhere and we couldn't move because I was in the middle of repairing the suit and I couldn't risk abandoning it.  No cover.  No distractions.  Just us and hundreds of biters headed our way.  Even if we could have run I don't know how much it would have helped, because they might have boxed us in anyway.  I thought we were going to die."  Tony shivered, his fingers twitching.  "But Rhodey… he had an idea.  He said—he asked if I'd noticed how the biters never attacked each other.  We knew they were blind.  So he figured that the biter smell had something to do with it, and if we covered ourselves in it, we'd be safe.  I thought it was a good idea.  Hell, it _was_ objectively a good idea.  I agreed to it.  But you know who the only biter around was?"

               "Sal," Steve whispered, beginning to see where this was going.

               Tony nodded tightly.  "We unburied him.  We pushed the dirt off his body, and we pulled him out of the hole we'd put him in.  Rhodey cut a line in him, and we—we put our hands in him."  His voice cracked.  "He was still warm.  Just an hour ago he'd been talking to us.  And now we were tearing him apart.  What set us apart from the biters in that instant?  The fact that we were using tools instead of teeth?  He was our friend, and we just… used him."

               "You were trying to stay alive," Steve said.  "No one's going to fault you for that."

               "We used him," Tony repeated.  "And when we'd smeared his insides over us, we laid down, and we waited for the biters to pass."  He shuddered again.  "For half an hour, I was on the ground, staring right into Sal's dead eyes.  Like he knew what we'd done to him.  I'll never forget it."  He started rubbing his hands against the roof of the building, and Steve quickly took them into his own hands before he could do any damage.  Tony struggled, but Steve held tight, and in the end he gave up on trying to pull away, sighing.  After a moment, he continued speaking.  "When I was in the middle of that herd just now… I couldn't stop thinking about it.  And not even just about Sal.  I thought about plunging my hands into Rhodey.  Into Pepper.  And consciously, I know I didn't do any such thing.  But what I do know is that I _don't_ know if—if someone else has."

               Steve swallowed and thought about the people in his own life—or at least, the people who had once been in his life, and who were now trying to survive at best, mindless and blind at worst.  Peggy.  Dum Dum.  The Howling Commandoes.  He never thought it would come to this, but he was thankful now for Bucky falling off the train all those years ago.  It meant that Bucky's fate, at least, was certain.  Not like the others.  The idea of his friends lying dead on the ground, their insides flayed, made his stomach churn.  "Don't think about it," he said.  "It's not going to get you anywhere."

               Tony tried pulling his hands away again.  This time, Steve let go, though he kept an eye out to make sure he didn't start rubbing them raw.  "I need to get clean," Tony whispered.  "I can't stand being covered in this."

               "Just hold on," Steve said as soothingly as he could.  "Once the biters lose interest we can go back to the river and wash ourselves.  Okay?"

               "Okay," Tony managed.  He wrapped his arms around his legs, looking small, and that was enough for Steve to decide to scoot closer, wrapping his own arms around Tony as well.

               "Hold on," he repeated, pulling Tony close.  "Just hold on."

               Tony didn't answer.  Instead, he unwrapped one arm from around himself, slipping it around Steve in return, and together they held on for dear life.

 

*

 

As they continued south the next day, after they'd washed the blood and guts off of themselves and raided a department store for clean clothes, Steve realized that the parkway they were following would take them right through New York City, and that they'd be there within the next couple of days.  "Tony," he said.  "You think it's possible that maybe—if it's not too much trouble—we could stop by Brooklyn?"

               Tony glanced at him.  He looked better than he had yesterday, though he was still a little pale.  "I know what you're thinking," he said.  "You want to see how different things are now.  Don't do it, Steve.  Remember your home the way it was."

               "Is that what you did?"

               "It's what I would have done if I'd known how bad things had gotten," Tony replied softly.  "I can barely think of it as home anymore.  Everything was changed.  Ruined.  The Bronx is as far as we're going to get, and then we'll be crossing the George Washington Bridge into Jersey.  Don't make me go any deeper into the city."

               Steve hesitated, then nodded, unwilling to fight him on this.  He badly wanted to know how his home had fared, but maybe Tony was right.  Maybe it was better to remember it the way it had been.  Not that his home had ever been particularly pure and clean, but at least it'd been _alive_.

               And so they continued on.  Soon enough, they were in the city, though Steve could only tell because of the signs—he didn't know the Bronx at all, and nothing looked familiar.  Given how run-down and ghostly everything felt, Steve found himself grateful for it, deciding Tony was right after all.

               They had just crossed an intersection, stepping back onto the sidewalk when some debris rustled, and a biter—no, two of them—slowly emerged from it, crawling on the ground—did they have legs?  It didn't look like they had legs.  Steve stepped back quickly, pulling Tony with him when he felt a sharp pain along his left calf.  "What the—" Steve began, twisting around to see what it was.  Someone had glued triangles of glass to the brick wall lining the sidewalk, about a foot above the ground, and he'd managed to completely miss it.

               "Fuck," Tony said, following his gaze, his eyes wide.  He turned away briefly to take care of the biters, then looked back at Steve's leg.  "That looks bad."

               Steve leaned down to get a closer look, wincing.  It was bleeding heavily.  Still—"It's nothing to worry about," he said.  "I heal fast."

               "You're bleeding all over the place," Tony replied, voice sharp.  "We have to do something about it."  He looked up and around.  "Wait, look.  We're literally right next to a hospital.  Let's go in and I'll take care of your leg, and then we'll get out of here."

               "We can just do it here," Steve protested.  "We still have some of the gauze left."

               Tony shook his head, leading him under the archway that proclaimed they were entering the St. Barnabas Hospital.  Steve thought he could hear a chime or something as they passed through, even though they were still outdoors, but he wasn't sure.  "The hospital might have disinfectant.  Needles and thread for sutures.  Maybe a sink that I can get working.  It's better inside."

               "Worrywart," Steve murmured.

               Tony smiled a little in response.  "If I am one, it's only because I learned from—"

               He was cut off by a sudden whooshing sound.  "Down!" Steve cried, pulling Tony with him as _something_ went soaring above them, right where their heads had been.  Using one hand to keep Tony on the ground, Steve cautiously sat up with his shield out, putting weight on his injured leg even if it was complete agony to do so.  "Jesus," he said a second later, scooting back.  "There's a tripwire here.  We must have triggered it."

               He let go so Tony could sit up and take a look as well.  Tony did so, cursing softly afterward.  "I didn't even see it.  God, I'm so sorry, Steve."

               Steve shook his head.  "That's not the kind of wire civilians buy," he said.  "We should be careful.  I get the feeling that whoever set this up is still around."

               "You would be correct," came a woman's voice from ahead of them, and Steve lowered his shield to see someone standing in the shadow of one of the hospital entrances, two pistols pointed right at their faces.

               Remembering how badly their interaction with Luke and Jessica had gone at first, Steve held his hands up in surrender.  His whole body was tense, though, and he was ready to move quickly if it was necessary.  From beside him, Tony did the same.  "We're not looking for any trouble, ma'am," he said.

               There was silence for a few moments.  "Names," the woman said finally.

               "Steve," Steve replied.  "And my friend is Tony."

               " _Full_ names."

               Steve glanced at Tony, who hesitated, then nodded.  He looked as uncertain as Steve felt.  Who needed full names these days?  The temptation to lie was strong, but he got the feeling—and he thought Tony did too—that she'd know if they were lying.  His shield already made it obvious who he was, anyway.  "Steve Rogers," he said.  "And Tony Stark."

               The pistols lowered.  "You wasted one of my traps and now the smell of blood is in the air.  Get inside before you bring the _lyudoyedy_ down on us."

               The word wasn't familiar to Steve.  It sounded Slavic—Polish, maybe?  But the woman had no accent.  Despite his confusion, he got up, although he didn't put his shield away.  If this bothered thewoman, she said nothing about it, instead pointing at two more spots on the ground.  "Mind yourselves there and there," she called to them.  "Unless you don't mind losing your heads."

               Upon closer inspection, the spots she pointed to were more tripwires, and Steve was careful to step over them with his bad leg, Tony following his lead.  "Keep an eye out," Tony murmured to him as they watched the ground.  "Those pistols were Makarovs."

               "Doesn't ring a bell."

               "Designed in '48.  Standard issue for Soviet military."

               Dimly, Steve remembered something about how the Soviets had apparently become their enemy after he'd gone into the ice.  Was that something that mattered, though?  Did nationality or politics have any sort of significance in a world like this?  "Is that really something we should be focusing on?"

               There was no answer, but Steve understood why—they were close enough to the door that the woman would be able to hear their words now.  They instead went quiet, going with her into the hospital.  Steve caught a flash of red hair before the door was shut behind them and the corridor plunged into darkness.  "Follow me," the woman said.  Steve had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust, but then he took hold of Tony's wrist and followed the woman down the hall, making sure Tony stayed close by.  She led them up a flight of stairs, then down the hallway again before she stopped in front of a door and opened it, motioning them inside.

               It was an empty patient room, from the looks of it.  It also had a window with the curtains open, and Steve blinked at the sudden light as he limped inside and took a seat on the bed.  "Thanks," he said, though he wasn't quite sure what their situation was yet.  Was she here to help them?  Or were they now her prisoners?

               Tony was apparently uninterested in subtlety, because he clapped his hands together and looked at her, expression defiant.  "So, lady, what's the deal?  My friend is bleeding out and I don't know what you want to do with us.  Are you going to help?"

               The woman glanced down at Steve's leg.  "What do you need?"

               "I don't—"

               "Water, a towel, disinfectant, a needle, thread, and gauze," Tony said.

               "I have those things," replied the woman.

               "I'll heal on my own," Steve tried again, but neither of them seemed to pay him any heed.  Steve sighed.

               The woman nodded at Tony.  "You.  Come with me and we can get these things for your friend."

               Tony's raised eyebrows made it clear what he thought of that idea, and he glanced down meaningfully at one of the woman's hands, which was still holding a pistol.  At least the other one was sheathed.  "If you're hanging onto that, then I'm sure you won't mind me hanging onto my things," he said.

               "Not at all.  Let's go."

               Steve quickly stood up, even though putting weight back onto his bad leg made him wince.  "Wait a second," he said.  "I can come too."

               "Steve, you're dripping blood all over the place.  Just stay put.  We'll be back soon."

               Tony had a point, but Steve couldn't help but feel uneasy anyway.  Nonetheless, he sat back down, running his fingers along his shield anxiously.  "Alright," he said.  "Tony… be careful."

               "When am I not?" Tony replied with a wink, even though Steve was pretty sure he wasn't feeling it.  He gave Steve a wave, and then he was gone, closing the door behind him.

               As soon it clicked shut, Steve stood up again, even though it still hurt and he didn't know what he was going to do.  It was just… this was the first time he'd been separated from Tony since he'd been brought out of the ice.  And he didn't like it.  What if something happened?  What if Tony got hurt while Steve was just standing here like an idiot?

               But what exactly could he do right now, anyway?  For all he knew, if he stepped out the door, he'd run into one of the woman's friends.  Maybe they'd been taken to this room because all the other rooms were already occupied.

               He sighed.  Fretting wasn't going to accomplish anything.  Action would.  So he limped around the room, looking through everything.  The drawers and trash can were all empty, which told him that this room wasn't normally in use.  Unfortunately, that didn't tell him anything particularly useful.

               They were still gone.  Maybe Steve should just go after them.  He had to protect Tony, and he wasn't sure if he trusted the woman just yet.

               But just as he took a step toward the door, it swung open, and Tony and the woman stepped back inside.  Steve let out an audible sigh of relief.  "Found what you needed?"

               Tony nodded as he came closer, while the woman continued to linger in the doorway.  "I'll let you two have some privacy," she told them.  "Then I'll bring you something to eat and we can… talk."  Without waiting for an answer, she left, the door again closing behind her.

               Steve frowned a bit and turned his attention to Tony.  "She's a strange one," he said.  "You learn anything about her?  Was anything unusual?"

               "Everything was fine," Tony said as he headed to the sink, trying the faucet.  It didn't work, so he got on his knees and opened up the cabinet beneath the sink, starting to fiddle with the plumbing.  "I kept on expecting her to do something, but she just showed me her supplies and let me take what I needed, and then we came back.  She didn't tell me anything about herself."  He turned to grin at Steve before turning his attention back to the sink.  "I even used all of my considerable charms on her, but they didn't work."

               "That's a shocker," Steve said with a soft snort, allowing himself to relax again.  Tony was okay.  "So what do you think?  Is she trouble?"

               Tony paused briefly with his tinkering.  "I don't know," he said at last.  "People don't just… have Makarovs.  And I think the word she said earlier was Russian.  Didn't recognize it, though.  But maybe it doesn't mean anything.  It's too early to tell."  He went to try the faucet again, beaming when a small stream of water came out and wetting a towel with it.  "Alright, leg out."

               Steve sighed and obediently stuck out his injured leg.  "I can do this myself."

               "Just let me have this," Tony said.  "Anyway, she did mention that the glass on the walls was her doing.  Guess it's supposed to cripple any biters who come close to the hospital.  Well, and you, apparently."  He started to wipe down Steve's calf, his movements gentle.

               "Better me than you," Steve said, trying not to wince.  "I don't know why you're bothering with all this.  I can't get infected."

               "Well, if I can cut down on your healing time, why wouldn't I?" Tony asked as he poured some ethanol onto a clean part of the towel and started dabbing away.  "We're friends, right?  That's okay for me to say?  I generally prefer that my friends don't suffer if it's not necessary."

               Steve watched Tony for a moment, thinking about where their relationship was now, and then nodded.  "Yes," he said softly.  "It's okay for you to say."

               Tony blinked and smiled up at him, though his smile faded as he got out the thread and needle.  "Time for the fun part."

               "Gee, I can't wait," Steve sighed, gripping at the bed he was sitting on.  Then Tony pierced him with the needle, and Steve hissed softly, letting out a pained grunt.  "T-think the last time I got sutures was in '43," he managed in the hopes that talking would distract him from what Tony was doing.  "We were in a factory.  Lots of moving parts.  Bucky patched me up that time."

               "Kid like that shouldn't have had to give anyone sutures."

               "Kid like that shouldn't have had to do a lot of things," Steve said.  "But he did anyway."

               Tony glanced up at him briefly before continuing.  "He was a good guy, Steve," he said.

               Steve looked down.  He wasn't sure this was a conversation he wanted to have, so he changed the topic.  "Do you think the woman is alone?"

               "Hard to say," Tony replied, eyes focused on the needle.  "This isn't a small building.  Honestly, I'm more worried that there are a bunch of biters locked away somewhere nearby.  Hospitals were one of the starting points for the epidemic.  People would flood these places at the beginning, looking for help, and then they'd all turn."

               The terror and chaos of those early days was hard to imagine.  "It's been five years, right?" Steve said.  "If there were biters here, they're probably gone by now."

                "Let's hope.  Assuming they _are_ gone, a hospital's not a bad place to hole up.  Medical supplies, a cafeteria, surgical tools you could probably make weapons out of… but fortifying this place would have been a lot of work.  Too many exits."

               "So she probably had help."

               Tony tied off the string and pulled back to admire his handiwork.  Steve twisted his leg so he could see the sutures as well.  Not bad.  "Yeah," Tony said as he got out the gauze.  "Hell if I know whether they're still around, though."

               He was wrapping Steve's leg with the gauze when the door opened again, and the woman walked in carrying a tray with two glasses of what looked like hot water and some cans of bologna and peaches that she'd already opened for them.  "I see you are getting settled," she said.  "I brought food."

               "Thanks," Tony said, getting up to take the tray from the woman, bringing it back to the bed.  "We have our own food, though."

               The woman shrugged.  "So do I.  But I find kindness has its place."

               "Yeah?" Tony asked as he split the food between the two plates.  He snorted softly.  "What, you want something from us?"

               There was a long pause as the woman watched the two of them start eating.  Then she smiled.  "What can you tell me about the Tveria weapon?" she said.

               Steve blinked.  The word was unfamiliar to him, but Tony jumped to his feet so fast that Steve had to rush to take the tray from his lap before their food spilled everywhere.  "How do you know about the Tveria?" Tony demanded.

               "I looked through your belongings," the woman replied casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  "I take it it's important."  Tony went pale, immediately turning to his bag as the woman continued, "There's no need for that."

               She held up some pieces of paper, which was enough for Steve to get up, close the distance between them, and pin her to the wall.  She didn't resist.  "Who are you and what do you want?" he snapped.

               The woman gazed at him, unafraid.  "I am nobody," she said.  "But _you_ are the long-lost Captain America, and your friend is—was—CEO of Stark Enterprises, and the hero known as Iron Man."  She gave Tony a searching look.  "Given your lack of metal suit, though, maybe you are not Iron Man anymore, either."

               Steve stared at her, bewildered.  Her recognizing him as Captain America wasn't particularly noteworthy, but—"What does him being CEO have to do with anything?"

               "Now?" asked the woman.  "Nothing.  But if things were different, I would have stolen everything his company had and taken it back home."

               "Home…?" Tony repeated, standing up from his spot beside his bag.  His eyes went wide.  "Oh, this can't be.  I've heard of you from… before."  He exhaled sharply, stepping toward her.  "You're a Black Widow."

               Steve didn't know what that was in this context, but the woman's lips twisted upward in a half-smile.  "Natasha Romanova, at your service."

               "Some service," Tony muttered.  When Steve looked to him for an explanation, he continued, "After the war, we heard rumors that the Soviets had trained these… super spies and sent them to China and the U.S. to infiltrate the government and other places of interest.  They were supposed to be beautiful, deadly women… hence the moniker 'Black Widow'."  Steve tightened his grip on the woman—Natasha—at that, but she still didn't seem interested in putting up a fight.  Didn't hurt to be careful, though.  "And it looks like we've managed to stumble upon one now.  But—" Tony paused, plucking the papers out of Natasha's hand—"no harm done.  We don't want to fight you, Natasha.  So we'll go and you can stay here at the hospital.  How's that sound?"

               Natasha didn't answer at first, instead watching Tony as he looked at the papers, his eyes widening again.  "These are blank," he said.  "Where are the Tveria blueprints?"

               "I hid them," said Natasha.

               Steve still didn't know what the Tveria was, but it was clearly important to Tony, so he pushed her harder against the wall.  "Then you'd better find them."

               Natasha cocked her head at him.  "No," she said.

               Tony's eyes flashed.  "We're armed and you're trapped," he said.  "You should rethink your decisions."

               "You're so-called heroes who don't kill people unless your lives are in danger, and even then you try to take them alive," Natasha answered.  "And I'm not trapped."

               There was a flurry of movement, and the next thing Steve knew, he was being kicked hard in the chest, his grip on her loosening.  Then she was standing in the doorway, half-crouched and eyeing them warily as one hand rested against the holster on her hip.

               "Don't even think about it," Tony said from behind him.  Steve chanced a glance back and saw that he'd drawn his rifle and was pointing it at her.  "Tell us what the hell you're up to.  Now."

               Natasha didn't say anything for a moment, but then she straightened, holding her hands up in surrender.  "I need your help," she replied at last.

               "Stealing my stuff doesn't make me inclined to do that."

               "No," Natasha agreed.  "But it forces your compliance."

               Steve sighed, rubbing his forehead.  How had they gotten into this?  "What do you want?"

               Natasha lowered her hands, seeming to relax a little now that they were listening to her.  "I was in a group of three, myself included," she said.  "One of them left several days ago to forage for more supplies south from here.  He hasn't come back."

               "And why can't you look for him yourself?" Tony asked.

               "Because the other member of my group caught polio from you Americans," Natasha said angrily.  "I can't leave her for extended periods of time to search.  I have to watch over her."

               "Polio," Steve replied dumbly.  He knew it shouldn't be, but the idea felt bizarre.  In their world, everyone was now infected with this… biter disease.  Virus.  Whatever it was.  But people could still catch polio.

               "I'll even show you," Natasha continued.  "Come."  Without waiting for an answer, she left their room and strode down the hallway.  Steve glanced back at Tony, who sighed and set his rifle down before following after her.  Eventually, she stopped in front of another door, cracking it open so they could look inside.

               There was another woman there.  She was asleep, her face pale and her body swaddled in blankets.  Natasha shut the door and turned back to them.  "Yelena," she said.  "My… colleague, you could say.  Maybe even my rival, once.  But she's one of the few people I have left.  I can't lose her."

               "Okay," Steve said.  "And what about the other person, the one you want us to find?  'South' isn't enough to go on."

               "He told me he was going to the Navy Yard," she replied.  "Something must have happened to him there."

               The Navy Yard.  That had to be the _Brooklyn_ Navy Yard.  "I know that place," Steve said softly.

               "And if we find this guy, or at least what happened to him, you'll return my blueprints?" Tony pressed.

               " _Yes_ ," Natasha said.  Her eyes were wide and pleading.  If she was acting—which was, apparently, not out of the question, given her past occupation—she was doing a very good job of it.  "I don't care about your weapons or your company or any of that.  I can't imagine why you would.  I just need to know what happened to my James.  Please.  Yelena aside, he is everything to me."

               "James," Tony repeated.  "Not James Rhodes?  Tall, handsome black fella?  Will talk your ear off about nature if you let him?"

               Natasha shook her head.  "No, I'm sorry," she said.  "My James has a metal arm."

               "James is a common name," Steve said as gently as he could.  Tony's shoulders slumped.  Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair, then continued, "Alright, well, that's certainly very distinctive.  Navy Yard, metal arm.  We'll take a look for you."  He would have taken a look for her _anyway_ , but she'd apparently felt the need to force them to do it.

               "Thank you," Natasha whispered.  "You should finish eating first.  When you leave… go through the southwest entrance.  There are no traps there."

               Steve nodded but didn't say anything more.  He and Tony turned, heading back to their room and letting themselves inside.  Tony kicked the door shut and rubbed the side of his head.  "This is my fault," he told Steve.  "Fuck.  I'm sorry."

               "It's okay," Steve said, nudging a plate of bologna and peaches toward him.  "Eat."

               Tony frowned down at the cold meat.  "Think she poisoned it?"

               Steve shrugged and put a peach slice in his mouth.  "If she's sincere, then weakening us is the last thing she needs."

               "That's a big if," Tony said, but he started eating anyway.

               They stopped talking after that, chewing in silence.  Canned bologna wasn't Steve's favorite thing, but he certainly wasn't going to turn down anything that was offered.  When they were done, Steve looked at Tony and jerked his head toward the doorway, wordlessly asking if he was ready to go.  He got an answering sigh in response, Tony seemingly resigning himself to the fact that they were going to do this.  Then they picked out some of the things they thought they would need and left through the southwest exit as instructed.

               Tony led the way—he had the map, and he seemed to be familiar with more of the city than Steve, who had really only known Brooklyn… Brooklyn, his home, and the place he would soon see again, even though he'd decided he didn't want to.  Now he had no choice.

               "So," Steve said softly once they'd been walking for about fifteen minutes.  The Navy Yard was over ten miles away, so they had a trek ahead of them.  "What's this Tveria that Natasha was going on about?"

               "Tveria," Tony repeated, drawing out the word.  He motioned to somewhere up ahead, where they could see a biter shambling around, and ducked onto a side road to avoid it.  "One of the Four Holy Cities in Judaism.  Supposedly, when the final redemption comes, Tveria is where it'll begin."  He chuckled to himself, though Steve didn't see what was so funny.  "Redemption is a nice thought, isn't it?  I wonder if humanity can be redeemed after everything that's happened."

               Steve glared at him.  "So one killer missile named after a religiously significant city wasn't good enough, huh?  You're making a second one now, even after everything you've told me?"

               "Killer—" Tony began, but he cut himself off and sighed.  "Fine.  I deserved that.  But this is why I didn't want to tell you about it."

               "And now I've found out anyway because a Soviet spy wants us to go on a mission for her.  Maybe you should have just told me from the very beginning."

               Tony exhaled sharply.  "It looks like a weapon," he said after a moment.  "But it's not."

               Steve reminded himself not to snap.  He was supposed to be better at this now.  "So what is it?"

               "Redemption," Tony said, voice quiet.  He let out another breath, continuing, "It occurred to me that if a modified Jericho could spread the infection, a modified Jericho could also spread the cure.  That's what I was working on.  Something we could build with our current equipment and materials that could distribute something in aerosol form.  Which is obviously a huge assumption, because who knows if this can even be beat, much less aerosolized…"  He trailed off, going silent for a moment before picking up again.  "I still think you're our best bet.  But maybe you're not actually immune.  There are just so many things we don't know."

               Steve had apparently just done a fine job of putting his foot in his mouth.  "Oh," he said.  He hesitated, then added, "I'm sorry I assumed, Tony."

               Tony smiled a little.  "It's fine," he said.  "I'm glad to know Captain America isn't perfect."

               "I've already known that for a long time," Steve murmured.  "Well… thanks for telling me.  We'll get those blueprints back."

               "That's what I've been wondering about, honestly," Tony said.  "So this James of hers goes off somewhere, and she wants us to find out what happened to him.  Maybe he's a biter now.  Maybe he just ran off.  How the hell are we supposed to know?  He doesn't have to be at the Navy Yard.  He could be literally anywhere."

               "I know," Steve said.  "It's not going to be easy.  But we gotta try."

               Tony just nodded, and the rest of the day went by in comparative silence, aside from a few brief moments of action when they had to deal with wandering biters.  When the sun set, they found shelter in an abandoned store, holing up for the night before setting out again in the morning.

               "You ever been to the Navy Yard before?" Tony asked as the East River came into view, looking as gray as Steve remembered, despite the sunlight reflecting off of it.  At least some things never changed.

               "You kidding?  I went there all the time as a kid," Steve said, reminiscing.  "I used to imagine that I was an officer on one of those ships.  Not that the Navy was my goal, but the ships were right here…"

               "How adorable," Tony teased.  Steve rolled his eyes.

               Then they were crossing the Manhattan Bridge, and even though Steve had steeled himself, he realized he still wasn't even in the slightest prepared for what came afterward.  It didn't matter that he'd already seen the same thing in all the other formerly inhabited places that they'd passed by, or that rationally, he knew that Brooklyn would be no different from the rest.  Seeing the streets littered with debris and trash and bodies—streets he'd run on as a child, on the way to the yard or school or back home—actually made his chest hurt, and he had to pause, one hand reaching out to grip at a lamp post.  "Oh, my God," he breathed as Tony came up next to him, looking concerned.  "Tony.  This was _home_."

               "I know," Tony said, reaching up to rub Steve's back slowly.  "I'm sorry, Steve."

               "This wasn't your fault."  He took a deep breath, then made himself straighten, running a hand through his hair and fighting the urge to look around again.  He already knew what he'd see.  "Come on.  Let's go."

               And so they went.  Steve knew the area well—and he wished he didn't, because now he knew how everything had changed—and he was able to lead them into the yard to look around.  There were more fallen soldiers here whose dog tags Steve took like he had with the others.  He still didn't know what he was going to do with them all, but he did know that he wasn't going to just leave them here.

               He straightened after picking up another one to find Tony staring at him.  He'd stopped trying to discourage Steve from gathering them, but there was something in his expression that gave Steve pause.  "What is it?" he asked.

               Tony blinked and shook his head, his shovel out as he continued on.  "It's nothing.  I just… was thinking, I guess.  I never had any dog tags."

               "Good, because I don't plan on needing to take any from you," Steve said, following after him.  "I didn't realize you didn't officially serve, though.  You were on the front lines."

               "No one could stop Iron Man from showing up in Europe, no matter how much they might have wanted it," Tony replied with a little smirk.  "But Tony Stark, with his terrible heart, is a different story."

               "I'm sorry to hear that."  The idea of serving his country but not being officially acknowledged for it… it stung a little.  Tony was as much a soldier as any of them, and he deserved the same kind of honor and respect.  "Hey.  Look."  He pointed to some dried muddy footsteps on the floor of the building they were in.  "These seem recent to you?"

               Tony knelt down to inspect them, then looked around the area.  "Yeah," he said. "Someone must have raided here recently.  Footprints show a normal gait.  Hell if I know if it's the guy we're looking for, but it might be worth checking out."

               Since they didn't exactly have anything else to go on, Steve figured they might as well, so they followed the footsteps outside until they disappeared somewhere along the main road, and Steve looked ahead to realize just where they were.  "Oh," he said faintly.

               Tony stopped beside him, frowning.  "What is it?  You found something?"

               "This road," Steve replied.  "If we follow it, we'll be in Brooklyn Heights."

               "Okay," Tony said, taking hold of Steve's wrist and trying to tug him away.  "We don't have to go that way."

               Steve shook his head quickly, pulling his hand back.  "Please," he said.  He knew it wasn't a good idea, but… "I want to go this way.  Please."

               He heard Tony exhaling softly, but the other man eventually nodded. "Okay," he said again.  "Let's go."

               And so they went.  Not long after that, they were on another street—a street Steve had known well, one that he had come to and left from nearly every day of his life, back when Ma was alive.  God, he was so glad she wasn't here to see this place now—especially because of the bodies.  Heaven help him, but there were so many bodies here.  Some were decayed or mangled beyond identification.  Most were people he didn't know.  But then he caught sight of one of his old neighbors, her lifeless body caught under a car, and he gagged, Tony coming up behind him and rubbing his back.  "It's okay, Steve," he tried to soothe.

               "It's not okay," Steve said, eyes squeezed shut.

               He could hear Tony swallow.  "It's not," he agreed after a moment.  "But—"

               Steve waited, but Tony didn't continue, and so he opened his eyes.  "Tony?"

               Tony was staring at a building further down the street, twitching a bit when Steve said his name.  "Sorry," he said.  "I just… I think I saw something.  Metal."

               Steve took a deep breath, avoiding looking at the spot where his neighbor was lying.  "Then let's go."

               Slowly, they made their way to the building that Tony had been looking at earlier.  The door was swinging slightly, as if someone had just passed through.  Steve glanced at Tony and stepped into the darkness.  "I don't hear anything," Tony said, his voice barely audible.

               Steve didn't reply, his ears straining.  "Upstairs," he managed after a few seconds of silence.  "Someone's upstairs.  Let's go."

               "I have a bad feeling about this," Tony muttered, but he nonetheless followed Steve up once they'd found the staircase, the wood creaking with each step they took.

               There were several doors on the second level, each of them ajar to varying degrees.  Steve motioned for Tony to stay before cautiously approaching the door closest to them, looking inside.

               It was empty.  He moved on to the second one, then immediately backed away when he realized there was a family in there—one that long since couldn't be helped anymore.  Trying not to feel shaken, he stepped into the third room, again looking and listening.

               A flash of movement caught his eye, and he whirled to the right, his shield coming out—but it turned out to just be a rat, and he forced himself to relax, shaking his head.  Maybe it was just a damned rat this whole time.  Maybe there was no one up here, much less Natasha's James.

               Then he heard a sound from behind him.  He turned to see a large shape shuffling out of the adjacent room, the darkness obscuring its features—but the soft groaning made it clear it was a biter.  Steve sighed, readying his shield to do what needed to be done.

               And then the light hit its features just right, and the shield clanged to the ground from his nerveless fingers.

               "Bucky?" he whispered.

               The hair was longer, the face older, but Steve would recognize him anywhere.  "Bucky," he repeated, stumbling toward him, putting out of his mind the whiteness of his eyes and the blood-red of his lips.  It was _Bucky_.  His friend.  His brother.

               "Steve, the hell is going on?"  From Steve's left, the entrance door swung open, and Tony stepped in, his eyes darting from the shield on the ground, to Bucky standing in the doorway of the other room, and back to Steve.  "Holy shit," he said, and he stepped forward, holding the shovel like a spear.

               Without thinking, Steve sprung into action—"Don't!" he cried, and he shoved Tony out of the room, slamming the door shut and jamming it with a piece of furniture and his shield.  Vaguely, he was aware of a cry of protest, but he put it out of mind.  He instead turned back to Bucky, who was slowly walking toward him.  "I thought you were dead," he breathed.

               Bucky didn't answer.  That was okay.  Steve approached him, ignoring the sound of pounding at the door.  He couldn't believe what he was seeing.  Bucky was here, not dead across the Atlantic.  Just to reassure himself that this was real, he closed the distance between them, embracing him tightly.  Bucky was bigger now—still not his height, but closer now than before.  God, Steve had missed him, and to find a piece of his past here again meant more to him than he could have ever known.

               There was a loud thump at the door.  Steve tried blocking it out, but then there was another thump, louder this time, accompanied by the sound of wood cracking.  "What—" he began, and then there was an agonizing pain in his neck, and he gasped, stumbling back at the same time Tony burst in, his eyes looking wild.

               "Get away!" Tony shouted, and then he swung the shovel at Bucky, the blade going straight into his skull.  Bucky crumpled to the ground, and Steve could do nothing but watch helplessly as a wave of nausea and dizziness overtook him, sinking onto the floor himself.  "Oh, my God," he heard Tony say over and over as he rushed toward him, fingers scrabbling to get out the gauze and put it over the wound on Steve's neck.  "Steve, what—what the—oh, my _God_ …"

               Steve groaned and tried to squirm away, eyes landing on Bucky's body.  "You killed him," he managed, struggling to keep his eyes open.  "I found him… and you killed him…"

               "He was already dead," Tony said, pressing on the wound.  "Steve, you know this."

               "No," Steve said, not wanting to believe it.  But he knew Tony was right.  Bucky was dead, and because of his denial, maybe he was dead now too.  Damn it.  Damn it all.  "…I'm sorry," he managed after a moment.

               Tony shook his head.  "Don't start with that," he said, pulling the gauze away.  Steve could hear him swallowing as he stared down at Steve's neck.  "Just stay with me."

               Steve tried to sit up, but when he straightened his arm to brace himself, it buckled, and he fell back down.  His vision felt blurry.  "What do we do now?"

               "I… I don't know," Tony admitted.  He reached down to pet Steve's hair.  It felt nice.  Tony hadn't done that since… since they were together.  "You're hurt, and I can't do anything."  His voice cracked, but he continued, "I'm afraid that all I'll be able to do is wait and see if you turn."

               That was what Steve was afraid of.  He sighed, placing a hand over the spot on his neck.  At least it had already stopped bleeding, but knowing the possibility of what was coming next, that wasn't much consolation.  "Bucky was here," he said, not wanting Tony to focus on his own helplessness.

               "I know."

               "He was a biter."

               Tony nodded.

               "How?"

               Tony exhaled softly.  "I don't know, Steve."  There was a pause, and then he continued, "Did… did you see his arm?"

               Steve considered looking back at Bucky but decided against it.  His mind was still trying to process everything.  He'd found Bucky, lost him, and now he'd been bitten.  It had taken, what, all of five minutes?  "What about it?"

               "He had a metal left arm."

               At that, Steve bolted upward, even if it made his head spin, and Tony was quick to support him.  "Natasha," he snarled.  "She must have—Bucky _died_ , I saw him fall—I should have known if he was still alive—"

               "Steve, stop," Tony said, the worry clear in his eyes.  "You're being irrational.  None of that matters anymore.  You've been bit and it's my fault.  Please just relax."

               Steve wanted to pick a fight with him, but he managed to decide against it, trying to relax even as his heart thudded uncomfortably loudly.  But… he couldn't let _everything_ slide.  "This wasn't your fault, Tony."

               "Isn't it?" Tony countered, sounding anguished again as his hands threaded through Steve's hair with increasing agitation.  "You've been bit, Steve.  Because I couldn't stop it in time."

               Steve forced himself to his feet, swaying a little but managing to remain upright.  Tony didn't stop him, his hands dropping out of Steve's hair.  "I got bit because of myself," Steve said.  "You need to stop doing this, Tony."

               Tony didn't respond to that part; instead, he stood up as well.  "What are you doing?"

               "What does it look like I'm doing?"  Steve took a deep breath and went over to Bucky's body.  The shovel was still sticking out of his face.  He knelt down, searching his pockets, and came up with a photo of Natasha.  Jesus.  So was this relationship between Bucky and Natasha mutual?  But why hadn't he known if Bucky hadn't actually died?

               "It looks like you're torturing yourself."

               Steve pushed himself back up, then pulled the shovel out and tossed it at Tony.  He missed.  "I want answers," he replied, picking up Bucky's body and hefting it over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.  "But I don't think I'll get them.  So at the very least we need to get your blueprints back.  Natasha will want proof."

               Tony's eyes went wide.  "Are you crazy?" he asked.  "You just got bit!  We can't go, especially not with you carrying him all the way.  We need to find somewhere safe, wait it out—"

               "And then what?" Steve replied.  "Let's say the worst happens.  Let's say I die—"

               "Don't," Tony said.

               "—And if that happens, I don't want my last act to be lying around somewhere, waiting.  I need to do this, Tony.  For Bucky.  I can't leave him here."

               Tony stared at him, his expression unreadable.  "Fine," he said, and he bent down to pick up his shovel and Steve's shield, handing the latter over to him.  "But Christ, Steve, at least let me carry him."

               "No," Steve said, immediately shying away, even if it made him stumble over his own feet.  It'd been a long time since he'd felt so uncoordinated.  "Let me."

               "You're bit," Tony repeated.  "You're weak, you can't—"

               "Please," Steve cut in.  "Please.  Let me."

               Tony took a deep breath, looking as though he wanted to say something more, but then he relented and went silent.  Together, they went down the stairs and through the exit, stepping back out onto the street.  The city was quiet around them, and Steve was relieved to see that all the noise they'd been making hadn't drawn any other biters out.  "All clear," Tony said.  "Let's go."

               They walked.  Steve didn't want to admit it to himself, but he was definitely slower, even without taking Bucky into consideration.  Tony seemed to feel the same way—he didn't say anything, but Steve could tell Tony was slowing down for his sake.

               "We're not going to make it back to Natasha tonight at this rate," Tony said a couple of hours in, the streets going dark around them.  Steve was stumbling often now, with Tony almost supporting him full-time, though he hadn't made any comment about it.

               Steve shook his head.  "We don't have the luxury of time," he said, stubbornly continuing to walk.  "We gotta keep going."

               "Have you looked at yourself?  You're pale.  Your skin is gray.  We need to stop."

               "We can't—" Steve began, and then he tripped over a fallen tree branch.  Before he knew it, he was crashing to the ground, Bucky's body tumbling past him like a ragdoll.  He cursed to himself and struggled back to his feet, but his limbs gave up on him, and he fell back down.

               "Oh, my God," Tony breathed, immediately going to Steve's side.  Steve blinked up at him blearily.  "Steve, darling, stay with me, okay?"

               Darling.  He hadn't heard that in a long time.  Was it really going to end like this?  Lying on a dirty, abandoned street in Manhattan with his former lover and the corpse of his best friend?  Was this what he'd been brought out of the ice for?

               He let his eyes shut all the way.  He suddenly felt very tired.  "This is my fault," he said.  "I've left you alone again."

               Tony's hands were back in his hair. "Don't start with that kind of talk, Steve.  Come on.  You're a super soldier.  You gonna let Hydra get the better of you?"

               What choice did he have?  His shield was useless against this kind of enemy.  "Hey, Tony?"

               "Yeah?"

               Steve forced his eyes open.  Tony looked so worried. There were wrinkles around his eyes and his face was pale.  Steve had done this.

               "Steve?"

               He couldn't look anymore.  He closed his eyes again, and this time he let them stay closed.

 

*

 

His mouth tasted of cotton when he awoke, and it took a few moments for him to come to the realization that there was literal cotton in his mouth.  With some effort, he forced his eyes open, seeing white walls that looked blue in the darkness of night and a large shape folded into a chair beside him.  "Tony?" he tried, but speaking was impossible—there was something over his mouth, and he couldn't spit out the cotton.

               The sound he'd made, muffled as it was, nonetheless ended up being enough to rouse Tony, who jolted awake and turned to him with wide eyes.  "Oh, thank God," he breathed, standing up before one leg apparently gave way.  Steve's own eyes went wide, but his reflexes felt sluggish, and all he could do was watch helplessly as Tony tumbled to the ground.  A moment later, though, Tony pushed himself back up, shaking his head.  "Sorry.  I'm fine.  Let me get this off you."  He carefully peeled off the tape over Steve's mouth, then fished out the ball of gauze that had been stuffed in there.  Afterward, he limped off, returning with a glass of water and holding it up to Steve's lips.  "How're you feeling?"

               Steve lifted his head and drank gratefully before falling back onto the surface he was lying on.  It was soft, so he assumed it was a bed.  "Like I went to hell and back," he rasped.  "Where are we?"

               "Back at the hospital."

               That was unexpected.  "How?  What happened?"

               Tony managed a weak laugh.  "A shit ton of things happened," he said.  The smile faded from his face as he continued, "You… passed out.  I was terrified you were going to turn, but I couldn't just… you know.  So I just sat there and waited, and when you didn't do anything I decided to take a chance.  I broke into a car and I put you and Bucky in the back seat, and then I got into the driver's seat and drove.  For a given definition of driving, anyway."  Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair.  Steve wanted to take this pause to ask about Bucky, but he decided Tony would get to it when he got to it.  "Gasoline degrades over time.  It's why I never suggested driving, because it doesn't work.  The car was slow as molasses and it was weeping the whole time because it was running on disgusting oxidized gas.  But it moved, and that was the important part."

               Steve took another drink of water.  "So you drove it all the way back to the hospital?"

               "I wish.  No, we only made it a few miles before it gave out completely.  By then there was a crowd of biters following us because of all the sputtering.  Too many for me to deal with."  Tony glanced at the door of their room, which was closed.  "But then Natasha came out of nowhere—I think she must have been keeping watch and saw us approaching.  She was riding a damned gurney.  And she took out enough of the biters so that I could get out and help her get rid of the rest."

               "She saved us?"

               Tony snorted.  "I'm as surprised as you.  But yeah, I guess she did.  After the biters were taken care of we squeezed you and Bucky onto the gurney and brought you back to the hospital.  We gagged you because we still weren't sure if you were going to turn."  He swallowed thickly, looking down.  "You were unconscious for several hours.  But… you woke up.  And now you're here."  Tony smiled cautiously then, continuing, "You got bit.  And you survived."

               "I survived," Steve repeated, blinking slowly at this.  He could hardly believe it.  But as much as he wanted to think about the implications—positive implications, for once—of this revelation, there were still more important things to address first.  "But what happened to Bucky?"

               "Natasha has him," Tony said gently.  "I… told her about him and you.  She said she didn't know anything about his past, and that he'd trained her as a spy…"  He trailed off, shaking his head.  "I don't think we'll ever know what happened to Bucky or how the hell he apparently ended up working for the Soviets.  I can't imagine he did it willingly.  But… he found happiness, at least.  With Natasha."

               Bucky had also ultimately been turned into a mindless being who had nearly killed Steve, but Steve held his tongue about that.  Tony was right.  There was some happiness in his life after he'd fallen in the mountains, and Steve needed to hold onto that.

               "She was going to wait and see what happened to you," Tony continued.  "I told her that you'd appreciate it if you were there when she buried him."

               "Oh," Steve said softly, surprised he'd thought of that.  "…Yeah.  I would.  Thanks."

               Tony offered him another small smile.  "It's nothing," he said.  "Anyway, now that we know you're okay… you should get some rest.  I promised Natasha I'd put together a coffin for Bucky.  When I'm done we can do this together.  So just relax, okay?"

               Steve didn't think he'd relaxed since he'd been brought out of the ice all those weeks ago, but he nodded anyway.  Tony reached out to take his hand and squeeze it, and Steve squeezed back before sleep took him once more.

 

*

 

The day was almost unbearably beautiful when they stepped out into the courtyard, with only a few clouds peppering the sky as the wind gusted around them.  Natasha and Steve carried the makeshift coffin out to the hole they'd dug earlier, while Yelena sat bundled up in a wheelchair nearby.  Tony limped alongside them—he'd sprained his ankle during the fight the day before, though apparently he hadn't seen the need to inform Steve until the topic couldn't be avoided anymore.  It was just like Tony, but for now, Steve couldn't find it in him to be upset.  They were alive, and that was more than what could be said for a lot of people.  For Bucky.

               None of them said a thing as the coffin was lowered.  Steve suspected that Natasha's memories of him were too private to share with the two of them, and if he was being honest, Steve felt the same way about his own memories.  So they laid him to rest in silence, each tossing in a handful of dirt before burying him in earnest.

               It should have been him who ended it, Steve thought.  He remembered Jessica, remembered how she had ended it for Peter and then Carol.  She had been their friend, and she had done right by them by sparing them further suffering.  But Bucky… it hadn't been Steve who had spared his suffering.  It'd been Tony.  Steve didn't begrudge him for that—it was his own foolishness that had necessitated it in the first place—but he still couldn't help but feel as though he'd ultimately failed Bucky.  He wasn't sure what there was in the afterlife, but Jesus.  What if he'd succumbed to that bite?  How could his soul ever rest, knowing that he'd caused his best friend to kill him?

               And what, he wondered, would he do if he ever found himself in this situation again?  It was, he felt, all very well and good to know that it _should_ have been him who ended it, but the thought of taking Peggy's or Dum Dum's or any other of his friends' lives still made his blood run cold.

               He felt himself hoping that he would never see any of them again so that he wouldn't have to face such a choice, and then he felt ashamed.

               When the funeral ended, they retreated back into their room, Steve still weak from the bite and Tony in no condition to walk for long distances.  A few hours later, Natasha came in, holding out some papers.  "I believe these are yours," she said, offering them to Tony.

               Tony blinked up at her, then took the papers back.  "Thanks," he said as he slowly turned them over in his hands.  "Almost forgot about these."

               "Please don't," Natasha said.  "This Tveria of yours… it's no missile, is it?"

               There was a pause, and Steve could tell that Tony was deciding if he could trust her or not.  "It's not," he finally agreed.  "It's meant to mass-deliver biological or chemical agents."

               "Like a cure," Natasha pressed.

               "Yes.  Exactly like that."

               "And how is it going to run?"

               Tony drew back a little.  "I have plans for that."

               Natasha stared at him, then nodded, evidently accepting this answer.  "I owe the two of you everything and no amount of food or shelter will ever be enough to repay you," she said after a moment.

               "You helped us too," Steve pointed out.  "And we knew Bucky… James as well."

               "You didn't know that going in," Natasha said, waving him off.  "My point is, there is no way for me to reasonably repay you.  But I'd like to try."  She pulled out one of her Makarovs and offered it to Steve.  "I noticed you had no gun."

               Steve frowned.  "I have my shield," he said.  "And Tony has a rifle."

               "You'll need it someday," Natasha insisted.  "Better to have a gun of your own than to not."

               "I can't."

               Natasha stared at Steve for a long moment.  Then she turned to Tony, putting away the Makarov and setting down what looked like several miniature cylinders.  "Smoke bombs and firecrackers, with love from Russia.  If you're traveling, you'll need them more than me."

               Tony managed to quirk his lips up at her.  "And here I thought you were supposed to rob me blind."

               "Call it a change of heart," Natasha said, smiling back, though it soon faded.  "I learned that there are some things that don't matter… and some things that do.  Goodness matters.  Love matters."  Her gaze shifted and went distant.  "I don't want to lose sight of that."

               "Thank you, Natasha," Steve said softly.  The title _Black Widow_ still echoed in his head, but… he thought he could trust her.  It was the end of civilization as they knew it.  What good would distrust do?

               Natasha nodded.  "I'll leave you two to it," she said.  "Stay as long as you need.  There are more elastic bandages in the next room for Tony's ankle."  With that, she left, and Steve and Tony were alone in the room.

               Steve stared down at the items Natasha had left on the table before turning his gaze to Tony.  "Love matters," he repeated.

               Tony looked at him, realized Steve was looking back, and then quickly glanced away.  "Soviet spies say funny things, huh?"

               Steve thought again about how much time he'd wasted on anger, and, worse, how much time he'd wasted on anger for a man who hadn't deserved nearly as much of it as Steve had felt.  "It wasn't that funny to me."

               Tony's gaze turned to him again, his expression a mix of confusion and cautious hope.  "What are you trying to say, Steve?" he asked softly.

               "I don't know," Steve admitted.  His heart had started to thud loudly in his chest, even though they were doing nothing but sitting in a quiet hospital room.  Maybe he should back away while he was still able to.  Maybe doing this would just lead to heartbreak again, just like during the war—a heartbreak that he could now admit was his own fault just as much as Tony's.

               But there was so little left now, he thought.  So much had been stripped away, and the few things that still mattered were laid bare.  He had to take this chance.  "Maybe," he continued, "I'm not trying to say anything."  And slowly, cautiously, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to Tony's.

               In retrospect, he should have anticipated the response—Tony surged forward, one arm wrapping around Steve tight as he returned the kiss for all he was worth, only ending when Tony suddenly sagged, wincing.  "Sorry," Tony said quickly, trying to lean forward again.  "Ignore that, I just—"

               Steve pulled back, frowning.  "You were putting weight on your ankle!" he reprimanded.  "Go lay down on the bed!"

               "I'm not a dog," Tony said, sounding a little put out, although he at least limped over to the bed.  "Well, except where you're concerned.  Can I say that now?"

               Some things never changed.  Falling back into this pattern, this relationship, felt so familiar and easy that Steve felt like a fool for not doing this sooner.  "Yes, Tony," he said, hesitating a moment before squeezing onto the bed with him.  He needed to make sure Tony didn't run off, after all.  "Make as many suggestive comments as you want."

               Tony beamed at him, curling up close.  His expression sobered a few seconds later, though, as he looked up at him.  "What is this?" he said.  "I mean… you kissed me, and now you're here.  I know you said you weren't angry anymore, but friendship and… this are different things.  What if we hurt each other again, Steve?"

               Steve exhaled softly, curling around Tony in return.  He'd missed this.  The warmth.  The closeness.  "If we hurt each other, it'll happen regardless of whether we kiss each other or not," he said.  "So we might as well kiss."

               "Well, if you put it like that…" Tony drawled.  "All right, then."

               They kissed again, and for a little while, Steve could pretend everything was as it'd once been, and that the world would be okay.


	3. Maryland

It was five days later when they left the hospital, Tony's ankle having healed enough for him to insist that he could walk long distances without a problem.  Steve had his doubts, but he didn't want to eat his way through Natasha's stores, and in any case, he figured that he'd just carry Tony if it came to it.  After all, it wasn't like he hadn't done it before.

               "We're headed toward Bethesda," Steve told Natasha as they stood outside the hospital, the coast clear for now.  "The NMI lab, specifically.  So if you ever want to leave the city…"

               Natasha looked thoughtful, glancing back inside.  "I suppose Yelena will not be confined to her room forever, one way or another," she mused.

               "Right," Tony said.  "And someone with your skills would definitely be nice to have around."

               "I'm flattered," Natasha said.  "Well… perhaps someday."  She held out her hand for them to shake.  "It was a pleasure meeting you.  Surprisingly."

               Tony laughed.  "The feeling is mutual," he replied as he, then Steve, shook her hand.  "Nothing like a worldwide disaster to bring people together, huh?"

               Natasha's lips quirked upward.  "No," she agreed.  "I hope this isn't the last time we see each other."

               Steve inclined his head.  "Same.  But until that next time… stay safe."

               "Oh, I'll be fine," Natasha assured them.  "Make sure to take your own advice."

               They chuckled, exchanged a few more words, and stepped back with a wave—and then Steve and Tony were off, continuing their journey south.

               It wasn't long before they passed by Penn Station, where to Steve's surprise, Tony stopped, gazing at the building contemplatively.  "Hey," he said.  "Think there are still any trains here?"

               Steve blinked.  "I don't know.  Probably.  Why?"

               "Bethesda's still a long way away," Tony said.  "Personally, I think it'd be grand if we could ride a train all the way there.  You want to go see?"

               There was no harm in at least taking a look, Steve supposed, so he nodded, and together they headed inside.  The architecture was as magnificent as Steve remembered from the few times he'd been here in his youth, but Jesus—there were so many bodies here, and the stench was almost overwhelming.  He was tempted to ask Tony to turn back, but Tony was already pressing on, determined, and so Steve held his tongue.  He could tell by the way Tony's fingers were flexing that he was itching to get his hands on something, to make it work again, and Steve had to smile at the thought.  He'd push on if that was what Tony wanted.

               After picking their way past several bodies—and having to put down a few that were still moving—they arrived at the boarding area, where a lone train stood waiting, its doors open.  "Jackpot," Tony said, beaming as he made a beeline for the engine.

               "I'll make sure the train is clear," Steve supplied.  Given the gleeful expression on Tony's face, Steve wasn't even sure if he'd heard him.  Nonetheless, he went to do a sweep of the railcars, but there were surprisingly few people here.  If he had to guess from the dusty footprints, it seemed as they'd gotten on this train at one point, been informed that it was going nowhere, and evacuated.  Steve wanted to hope they got away okay, but he had a feeling that ultimately many of them had perished in the station.

               He returned back to where Tony was fiddling twenty minutes later, finding him already covered in soot.  "It's all clear," he said as he deposited his bag at Tony's feet.

               "Great.  We're in luck—it's a steam engine, and I think I might be able to get this running after I clean out some of the gunk in here.  I don't know how far we'll be able to get, but it beats walking."  Tony smiled broadly, though it faded into a contemplative expression as he added, "It's going to be pretty loud if it works, though.  We've already gone through the station and the train itself, but could you also look in the tunnel?  Just to be sure we're not about to bring a herd of biters onto us?"

               "Sure," Steve said.

               Tony smiled brightly again and went back to work.  Steve watched him for a moment, glad to see him back in his element, and then he got off the train, heading into the tunnel.  He'd have checked it out without Tony's prompting, anyway—if this train was functional, it should have gone somewhere, and now Steve was wondering if there was some reason it was still parked here after all this time.

               He had his answer soon enough.  Not too far down the tunnel, there was a slight cave-in—it wasn't so bad that the train wouldn't be able to pass through, but there was a pile of debris lying in the middle of the track that would likely prove problematic if they tried to push through it.

               Well, Steve thought as he approached the pile.  Moving rocks and pieces of wood wasn't what he had envisioned using his super soldier serum for, but he supposed that nothing these days was what he'd envisioned, so he might as well roll with the punches.

               He'd been clearing the debris for maybe ten minutes when a whistling sound echoed through the tunnel, and Steve blinked, realizing Tony had started up the train.  "Steve?" he heard.

               "I'm still in the tunnel," Steve called back.  "I'm moving some things out of the way."

               "Need help?"

               "No, I—"

               He froze.  It was so faint he'd almost missed it, but—he'd heard it.  That was a biter sound.  He turned quickly, facing the darkness of the tunnel, and then he saw them—not too many, and mostly spaced out, but he didn't know if there were more where he couldn't see, and if they piled up in one place the train wouldn't be able to pass through.

               "Steve?"  The word was more urgent this time, more worried.

               "Move the train!" Steve shouted.  He threw his shield, angling it so that it would knock the nearest biter to the side of the tunnel, then repeated it for the next closest biter.

               There was a pause, and Steve was terrified that Tony wouldn't get moving, that he was leaving the train.  Finally, though, he shouted back, "But you're in there!"

               Steve flung his shield again and went back to moving the debris once he'd caught it.  "Just do it!"

               At last, he could hear the telltale sound of the wheels churning into motion, slowly making its way down the tracks.  He didn't have much time left, and there were still more biters coming.  With a quick swipe of his shield, he took out yet another biter that had gotten too close, and then he got back to push one last rock—God, it was practically a boulder—out of the way, body straining.

               Finally it was moved, and Steve had to stumble back to catch his breath, arms aching a little.  He didn't have long to rest, though—a cluster of four or five biters were practically on top of him now, and he sent the shield flying, kicking as hard as he could afterward to knock the closest biter off of him.  Then he threw himself at them, pushing the biters off the track as the train came bearing down on them.

               "Steve, you need to get on!" Tony shouted, body half off the train.  "This thing's not stopping!"

               "Good," Steve grunted, because once it picked up speed anything on the track wouldn't be as much of a problem, no matter how loud they were.  He disentangled himself from the cluster of biters and started running alongside the train.  "There's no foothold!" he called.  "Think you can pull me up?"

               Tony leaned over, one arm outstretched.  "Yeah, just grab my hand!"

               Steve reached up, but as soon as their fingers touched another biter lurched out of the darkness, and Steve quickly shoved Tony's hand away, not wanting to risk his arm getting bit.

               "Are you crazy?" Tony shouted at him.  He was ahead of Steve now, eyes wide.  "I'm gonna try and stop the train!"

               "Don't you dare, Tony!"  There were clearly several biters in here, and Steve would much rather Tony get out alive instead of being trapped here in the tunnel.  He jammed his shield against the biter's skull and then ran as fast as he could.  Tony reached out again, and this time Steve was able to grasp the offered hand firmly, pulling himself up.

               He was almost in when a sudden weight almost dislodged him, and above him, Tony grunted in pain, still trying to haul him up.  Steve looked down to find a biter clinging to his waist and swore softly to himself.  By now, at least, the train was going fast enough that the biter's head was lolling back a little, unable to fight the wind enough to bite him.  He kicked, but still the biter held fast, its teeth gnashing.

               Steve couldn't risk the biter getting into the train with them.  "Tony, let go—"

               "How many times am I going to have to ask if you're crazy?" came the strained reply.  "I'm not fucking letting you go!"  He yanked sharply then, and after a moment, Steve found himself being pulled inside, the biter trailing after him.

               Damn it.  He kicked again, and this time the biter stumbled back, but then it lurched toward Tony, who had fallen and was grappling around for a weapon.  Steve grabbed the biter's arm to yank it away, only to find that the arm had come right off.  He cursed, reached for the leg instead, and with a loud cry, tossed it right off the train, panting for breath afterward.

               Tony blinked up at him, his own chest heaving.  "Alright," he said in the ensuing silence—relative silence, anyway.  Neither of them was shouting anymore, at least.  "Thanks for that."

               Steve let out his breath slowly.  "No need for thanks, Tony," he said.  "Jesus."

               "Well, we made it," Tony said.  "That was more harrowing than I would have generally preferred, but I have to admit, that sort of thing always sold well back during my _Marvels_ days…"

               "Make it through this, and we'll chronicle and sell all of these adventures, too," Steve replied as he slumped back against the wall of the compartment.

               Tony laughed.  "To who?  People like Luke and Natasha don't strike me as the kind who would be particularly interested in my… our adventures."

               "I'd buy them," Steve said defensively.  "I like adventures."

               Tony's lips quirked upward at that, and he smiled, looking fond.  "I know, darling," he said.  "Well, I suppose if we have at least _one_ interested customer, it's a plan."

               "Good."

               They fell quiet then, enjoying the temporary peace as the train continued through the tunnel.  Dimly, Steve was aware that they should probably be keeping an eye out in case there were more blockages, but he couldn't make himself get up just yet.  But evidently luck was on their side, because soon enough, sunlight flooded into the compartment, and Steve realized they'd cleared the tunnel.  He pulled himself up, Tony doing the same beside him, and looked outside.

               "Beautiful," Tony said, watching as the city passed by.  "Maybe we could make it all the way to Bethesda on this train.  Wouldn't that be something?  Our journey could practically be over."

               Over.  It was a dangerous thought, Steve felt, one that was so very tempting to give into after all these weeks of difficult traveling.  But maybe it wasn't so farfetched.  Maryland was getting closer every minute, Tony had designs for something that could distribute a cure, and Steve had proven that he wouldn't turn.  All the pieces were almost there.  They just had to put them together.  "You think?" Steve asked.

               "Maybe make that I _hope_ ," Tony replied.  "It's dangerous to expect too much.  But… I don't know."  He offered Steve a smile.  "I found you.  Other things don't seem as hard anymore."

               Steve reached over to take Tony's hand.  It felt right.  "You're one of the most capable people I know," he said.  "If anyone can help bring an end to this, it's you."

               Tony snorted softly, though he was still smiling.  "Says one of the greatest heroes of the twentieth century."  When Steve opened his mouth to protest, Tony held up his free hand.  "Sorry, but you can't fight it.  The history books have already added you."

               "That's ridiculous," Steve said, flushing a little.  He'd done no more or less than the rest of them!

               "It's the truth," Tony insisted.  "But I guess you're in luck.  No one's going to be reading any history books for a while, I'm thinking."

               The thought was sobering.  Assuming they made it out of all this alive, assuming they would be able to rebuild… it seemed like maybe there was going to be a whole generation that would miss out on history and literature and math and science, because the only thing they would learn while growing up was how to survive.  And while polynomials had never directly helped him take a biter down, these things _mattered_.  "What are we even going to do?" he asked.  "Once all this is finally done with?"

               Tony shrugged.  "What were you going to do after the war ended?"

               The question was unexpected, and Steve blinked.  He hadn't thought about it for a long time.  "I… I don't know," he admitted after a moment.  "I don't think I ever figured it out.  So much of my identity during the war was tied to being a soldier.  And now I'm needed because my blood might be able to help people.  And either it will, or it won't, but what then?  What do people who aren't needed do with their lives?"

               "Christ, Steve," Tony said, turning his hand up so he could squeeze Steve's own.  "First off, everyone is needed.  Second, _Captain America_ will especially always be needed.  You were our beacon of hope during the war.  I think you still are for a lot of people, even if almost everyone in this country believes you're dead.  And third, what am I, chopped liver?"

               Steve snorted softly, looking down.  "Come on, Tony.  You don't _need_ me."

               "I think I'm the only one who can say for sure, don't you?" Tony responded softly.  "Even when you were angry with me… and even when I was angry at you for being angry with me… you were still everything to me.  When I thought you died…"  He trailed off, taking a deep breath.  "Well.  I'm glad you're back, Steve."

               The polite response would be to say that he was glad to be back, but Steve didn't think he could bring himself to say such a thing.  He doubted Tony would believe him, anyway.  How could he be glad to be brought back to a world that was now a more dangerous, darker place than the one he remembered?  Everything had changed, and none of it had been for the better.

               But he was needed.  And he was in a position to help others.  Those things were important, and knowing that—well, maybe he was a little glad.

               It all seemed like a lot to convey, though, so he just changed the topic.  "What will _you_ do after this is over?" he asked.  "Make a new suit, maybe?"  Steve still wasn't sure what had happened to the old one.

               "Me?" Tony repeated, as though the idea of turning the question back onto him was completely out of the blue.  "I… I don't know, either.  A new suit would be nice, but I—I need to find out what happened to Pepper.  I don't know how plausible that is, but… I owe it to her to try."

               Steve nodded slowly.  "Well… I could help," he offered.  "If you liked."

               "Really?" Tony said.  He smiled a little, face full of fragile hope.  "If you want to stick around, I'm certainly not going to complain."

               "I don't kiss and run," Steve said, lips quirking.  "And anyway, maybe I could search for my own friends at the same time."

               Tony's smile broadened.  "It's a date, then," he replied.  "I mean—it won't be a fun date, but… it's something."

               "That's enough for me."

               The conversation ended after that, and Steve turned his attention outside, watching the world pass them by and eating when he got hungry.  Tony got up after some point to fiddle more with the controls, making adjustments as necessary, and for a little while, Steve could pretend the world was okay.

               It couldn't last forever, though.  Eventually, a thick cloud of smoke appeared on the horizon before them, blocking out the sun as they got closer.  "Philadelphia's still on fire," Tony murmured.

               Steve didn't know how they'd gotten to a point where an entire city had to be burned to the ground, nor did he want to know.  Since the train was bound for Philadelphia, they jumped off before they could get there and started walking.  Any worries about having to continue on foot for some time dissipated when Steve found a pair of bicycles in a suburb they were passing through, and after Tony fixed them up, they were able to begin riding south.

               The next few days were comfortingly similar.  They would ride, take detours to avoid biters and debris when necessary, eat when they got hungry, and then when night fell, look for shelter.

               Then they arrived in Baltimore.

               At first, the day seemed as though it would be the same as the others.  They rode down the streets of the city, tires quiet against the pavement as they navigated past dead cars and fallen bodies.  They snuck into a store at one point, took out a couple of biters, and found a few cans of food that had rolled under the shelves before getting back onto their bikes.

               Not long after that was when Steve started to hear the screaming.

               He stopped dead in his tracks, motioning for Tony to stop too.  Tony did, though he looked confused.  "What is it?"

               "Do you hear that?"

               Tony frowned a bit before his eyes went wide.  "Yeah," he said.  "It's coming from our right, I think.  Let's go."

               They took off again, with renewed urgency this time as they sought to locate the source, and finally they skidded to a halt when they arrived before a large group of biters all crowding around a car.  The screaming was coming from a lone woman inside, who was holding a bulging bag against herself.

               "That car's not gonna last for long," Steve murmured.  The screaming was only winding them up further, and they were pounding into the car as hard as they could, trying to get inside.  "Ready for a fight?"

               Tony got off his bike, setting his pack of supplies aside as Steve did the same.  "Let's do this."

               They charged in, Steve flinging his shield so that they would strike the biters furthest from them as Tony handled the ones that were closer.  A few of them peeled away from the car and started lumbering toward them, though for better or for worse, the woman's continued screams kept many of them distracted.  Steve barreled through them, vaulting over the car so he could strike out the ones that seemed to be closest to getting inside.  One of them grabbed him unexpectedly from behind, but he was able to duck before it bit him—just because he knew a bite wasn't fatal for him now didn't mean he was particularly eager to repeat the experience.

               He threw his shield again to knock away the biters surrounding Tony, using his legs to disable the ones that were closest to him instead.  Then the woman screamed again, and Steve turned to find that one biter had broken a window and was crawling inside, hands reaching—he pulled it out and threw it as hard as he could against a nearby building, the crack it made on contact audible even in the heat of battle.

               Finally, they were all taken down, and Steve leaned over, looking at the woman inside the car.  She still looked shaken, but she was calmer now, at least.  "Need any help getting out?" he asked.

               The woman shook her head, unlocking the car door and opening it.  "Thanks for that," she said as she stepped out with her fingers still clutching her bag, which made clinking sounds as it was moved.  "I thought I was done for."

               "It was our pleasure," Tony said.  He eyed the bag she was holding.  "That looks heavy… can you carry all that yourself?"

               The woman looked at him, then at Steve.  Her eyes went wide, but before Steve could comment on it, she spoke.  "That would be appreciated," she admitted.  "If you two gentlemen have the time."

               Steve wanted to carry it, but Tony was closer, and he slung the bag over his shoulder with a wink before Steve could say anything.  All he could do was huff in Tony's direction before turning back to the woman.  "If you don't mind, what's in there?" Then he went to retrieve his own things, carrying Tony's supplies as well.  He didn't want Tony overexerting himself!

               "Ah," the woman said.  "Honestly?  Lab supplies.  I was coming from one of the Johns Hopkins campuses when I got ambushed."  She paused and offered her hand to each of them.  "I guess I should introduce myself.  I'm a scientist.  Maya Hansen."

               "Hansen…" Tony repeated thoughtfully.  "I've heard of you.  You've written a few papers on biology."

               "That's me," Maya agreed.  "I'm honored.  I didn't expect you to know of me.  I mean, you're Tony Stark."

               "You recognize me?"

               Maya laughed a little.  "Well, you're a little more disheveled than I remember, but of course I do.  You're one of the great minds of our time."  She turned to Steve, gaze dropping to his shield.  "And you must be Captain America."

               "Call me Steve," Steve supplied.

               Maya beamed at them both.  "Well, Tony, Steve, I'd love it if you'd help me get back to my base."  She pointed north.  "I'm staying inside the Municipal Stadium with a few other folks.  You're welcome to spend the night there, if you'd like.  We turned the field into a garden, so there's plenty of food to go around."

               "A garden," Steve said.  The thought was… uplifting, actually.  "That's clever.  I'd like to see it."

               "Then come on," Maya said, starting to head down the street.

               Steve glanced at Tony to make sure he was okay with all this.  Tony nodded, shrugging the shoulder with Maya's bag slung over it, and started to follow her, Steve quickly doing the same.

               "So," Tony said as they walked.  "Lab supplies.  You're finding time for your biology research in the middle of an undead epidemic?"

               Maya laughed.  "If not now, when?" she asked.  "Besides, you could say that now's the best time for experimenting.  The government's not breathing down our necks anymore.  All those regulations."

               Tony frowned a little.  "Those regulations exist to prevent the things from happening during the war from being repeated."

               Steve's heart skipped a beat, and it wasn't in a good way.  He remembered all too well the "experimenting" that had gone on during the war, and he wasn't about to tolerate it happening again, government or not.  "Maya, if you're talking about human subjects—"

               "Relax," Maya interrupted.  "Sorry.  I misspoke.  I'm just trying to say—the world's gone to shit, and we need to find a way to fix it without having to go through a load of red tape, because that takes time we don't have.  That's what I'm glad for."

               That was… better, Steve supposed, and he nodded.  "So you're researching a cure?" he tried.

               "In a way," Maya replied as they drew closer to the stadium.  The entrance closest to them looked blocked, and she led them to a further one instead, rapping on the door a few times.  Once it swung open, they stepped inside, Maya leaning in to whisper something to the person who had opened the door for them.  "But first we need to know how it works."

               "Uh huh," Tony said as he looked around.  "Nice place you've got.  How many people here?"  He hadn't, Steve noticed, mentioned that they were planning on looking for a cure, too.

               Maya waved a hand.  "Not many.  Seventeen people including myself.  Most of us are scientists, actually."

               "You got a mating call or something?  How do you even manage that?"

               "Luck, I suppose," Maya said with a shrug.  She pushed open the next set of doors that they arrived at, and Steve blinked, finding himself facing more green than he'd seen in ages.  "This is our garden.  We have corn, potatoes, peas, carrots, tomatoes, and a few other things we're trying out this year."

               Steve stepped toward it, taking in a deep breath.  It smelled—good.  Not like dying and dead people, which was something—as terrible as it was to admit—that he'd started to get used to.  "It's nice," he said intelligently.

               Maya chuckled at his reaction as she took her bag back from Tony.  "Well, I'm going to put these things away.  You can stay here for now—I'll be back soon."  With that, she left, carrying her supplies back inside.

               As soon as she was gone, Tony came up to Steve, placing a hand against his shoulder.  "Hey," he said softly.  "We should go."

               "What?" Steve replied.  "Maya said she'd be right back, though."

               "Yeah, and I don't think I want to be here when she is."

               Steve frowned at him.  "What's going on?  She seems fine.  We can't be suspicious of everyone, not in a time like this.  We're all in this together, Tony."

               Tony shook his head quickly.  "I'm sorry, Steve," he said.  "It's just—she said most of the people here are scientists.  I've lived the last five years—" _unlike you_ being the implication—"and you don't just wind up with a homogenous group like that by accident.  Something's fishy."

               "Isn't that what we're doing, though?" Steve pointed out.  "You're a scientist.  And this Reed friend that Jim went with is also a scientist.  Hell, Jim himself is a naturalist.  Similar people seek each other out.  That's not strange."

               "Right, but we're not scientists who think no more government to interfere with our experiments is a good thing!"

               "She said she misspoke," Steve shot back.  "People do that!"

               "Please," Tony said.  "Steve.  We helped her.  We don't harm her by leaving."

               Steve sucked in a breath.  He didn't like this.  He didn't like being wary of people who were probably just trying to survive, the same as them.  But Tony clearly felt strongly about this, and… Steve trusted him.  "Okay," he said at last.  "Let's go, then."

               Tony let out a sigh of relief, squeezing Steve's shoulder.  "Thank you," he murmured.

               And so they headed back the way they came, making their way toward the unblocked entrance they'd used to get in.  The man who'd opened the door was still there, gazing at them coolly.  "You're Maya's guests," he said.  "What are you doing here?"

               "Well, we came to deliver her stuff, and now we're leaving," Tony said cheerfully.  "So if you could crank that big door open for us…"

               "Maya didn't say you could leave."

               Steve could feel his fingers tightening against the shield.  Maybe Tony was right.  "Sir, we would really prefer not to fight."

               "No one said nothing about fighting," the man replied, holding his hands up placatingly.

               He glanced at something behind Steve, and by instinct, Steve whirled around, but it was too late—there was another man standing down the hall holding something, and the next thing he knew, there was a whoosh, something sharp—a tranquilizer dart?—coming at him.  He blocked it with his shield in time, but another one had already struck Tony, who crumpled helplessly to the ground.

               "Tony!" he cried, but saying his name wasn't going to accomplish anything, so he acted—one swipe of his shield took out the man at the entrance, and then he was hauling Tony over his shoulder, shield cutting through the air to take out the man who'd shot at them.  The man fell over, and once Steve had caught his shield again he turned to try and figure out the door—there was some sort of mechanism involved, and he couldn't just push or pry it open.  Damn it.  If Tony had been the conscious one they'd have been out by now.

               Finally, though, something clicked.  Steve sighed in relief, just about to open it up—and then he smelled something acrid fill the hallway, and everything went dark.

 

*

 

"—long ago was it?  Is there any left in his system?"

               "Can't be more than two weeks old.  It's probably cleared out by now, but we can just—shit, he's up—"

               Steve coughed as consciousness returned to him, trying to shift but finding his movements were limited.  This woke him up fast, and his eyes snapped open to see himself strapped to a chair—not just with rope, but duck tape as well.  They hadn't wanted to take any chances, apparently.

               He looked around quickly, only seeing Maya and the man who'd had the tranquilizer darts from earlier, the latter holding his side and looking pained.  They were both staring at him.  "Where's Tony?" Steve snarled.  If something happened to him—

               "Stark is still unconscious," the man said smoothly, unperturbed.  "The gas we used had previously been untested on humans, and he is not handling it as well as you are.  The paralytic agent he was injected with complicates things further."

               A thrill of fear ran through Steve.  Gas?  Paralytic agent?  Could Tony's heart handle those things?

               It was his fault.  If he'd been faster with the locks, better with his shield, if he'd just listened to Tony straightaway…

               He had to fix this.  He rocked violently against the chair, but none of the restraints gave.  "I need to see him."

               "You don't need to go anywhere," Maya said.  He realized now that she was holding a syringe which was already filled with blood.  His own?  "Steve, don't you realize?  You're the key.  There are more important things now than an irrelevant weapons designer."

               "I don't know what you're talking about," he spat.

               Maya gazed at the syringe in her hand, her expression—adoring, it almost seemed.  "I saw the bite mark on your neck," she said.  "I've never seen anyone with a bite mark who was still in their right mind."  She looked back at him.  "Is that why you're Captain America?  Because the military found out that you had some sort of extraordinary immunity?"

               It seemed as though she knew nothing about Project Rebirth, and Steve was keen to keep it that way.  "So you want to find a cure," he said, changing the topic.  "There was no need to keep me here by force.  I would have helped."

               "Would you?" Maya pressed.  "I saw how Tony reacted earlier, and you're _Captain America_ , the epitome of the moral high ground—"

               "We're not here for a cure," the man cut in.  "The epidemic has been a blessing.  It has culled the weakest of humanity.  If we could refine it to be more selective, we could emerge from this as a stronger, better species.  We were hitting dead ends before, but your arrival has opened up so many new doors for us."

               They were both out of their minds.  There was no other explanation for it, because how could anyone actually think the biters were a blessing?  Steve had to find Tony and get them out of here before things became worse than they already were.   "I won't let this happen," he said.

               "It already is," the man said.  He smiled benignly, turning toward the door.  "I will check on your friend Stark," he continued.  "He may be of use to us."  He left, and only Steve and Maya remained in the room.

               Maya stuck another syringe into Steve's arm, and Steve hated that she could.  "You'll have to excuse Tem," she said conversationally.  "He gets overzealous.  He makes things sound a little more sinister than they really are."

               That was an understatement, but Steve wasn't in the mood to get flippant with her.  "He thinks people dying is a good thing."

               "Those people were going to die anyway," Maya said.  "All this has done is speed up the process."

               Steve thought about Bucky, about his metal arm and his relationship with Natasha and how Steve would never know what truly happened to him because he was _dead_ , and he rocked his chair again, enough that Maya cringed away.  "Don't you say that," he snapped, his voice raised.  "Every life has value."

               "Don't be loud," was all Maya said in response.

               He couldn't stay here any longer.  As Maya turned to the side to do something with the syringe, Steve took the chance to glance around the room again—still distressingly no Tony, but this time he noticed both of their packs lying nearby, along with his shield and Tony's shovel and rifle.  Confined as he was to the chair, though, he wouldn't be able to use anything inside the packs, which meant he needed to stop being confined to the chair.

               Well.  If he couldn't get out of the restraints, then he'd have to get out of the chair.  He tensed up, then pushed off with his feet as hard as he could, flipping the chair—and himself—over and landing on the back legs with a loud crack, the wood of the chair breaking beneath him.  Maya cried out in alarm, and as much as Steve hated to do it, he kicked her with one of his freed legs, and she fell back, stunned.

               This was better now, even if broken chair legs were still attached to his calves, but he still didn't have use of his hands.  Checking to make sure Maya wasn't getting up, Steve ran out of the room, looking down the hallway, and—there.  Not too far down was what looked like an office with a glass wall, and Steve charged toward it, bursting through the glass and hearing it shatter around him.  There were tiny flecks of blood appearing on his clothes, but he ignored them for now, turning his back toward one of the glass edges still attached to the wall and sawing apart the restraints binding his wrists together.

               That was when he heard the thumping.

                He didn't know was causing it, but it couldn't be anything good, and so he doubled his efforts, pushing against the glass as hard as he could until his hands were finally free.  From there he was able to turn his attention to getting the chair off of him, and then—

               A door burst open, and the sounds of moaning filled the air.

               _Don't be loud_ , Maya had said, and Steve realized now why she had told him that.

               He couldn't dawdle.  Tony could be anywhere, and Steve was now racing against time, with a horde of captive biters—though just _why_ they were captive, Steve didn't want to know—now on the loose.  He threw aside the last piece of the chair he'd been tied to, then took off running back toward the room he'd woken up in, away from the biters he could hear from somewhere behind him.  Once there, he flung both his and Tony's packs over his shoulder, hoisting his shield.  He was on his way out when he caught sight of Maya, still out cold against the ground, and despite everything, he paused—she was the one who had done this to him, but… he couldn't just leave her here for the biters to devour.

               Fuck, he thought.  _Fuck_.

               Quickly, he turned back into the room, scooping Maya into his arms before taking off again down the hallway.  Half a minute later, he nearly collided with a woman emerging from another room, who gasped and clutched her hand to her heart.  "What did you do to Maya?" she screamed.

               "Where's Tony?" he shouted back at her.

               "What—" the woman began, still staring at Maya in horror.  "I—I don't know what you're talking about!"

               Damn it.  They were getting nowhere fast.  "Tem?" he pressed.  "Where would Tem be?"

               "I-I don't know!" she stammered, but Steve continued staring at her until she blurted out, "The press box!"

               Steve stepped back, the woman visibly relaxing as he did.  "Thank you," he said.  "Now get out of here, and tell anyone else you find to evacuate.  There are biters loose."

               She stared at him.  "No, there aren't.  They get locked up after testing."

               "Check again," Steve said at the same time the first of the biters came into view from behind him—or, at least, that was what he assumed had happened, because her eyes went wide and her hand returned to clutching her heart.

               "Oh, my God," she breathed, and then she was off like a shot.

               Steve followed after her, figuring she'd be able to find her way out of the building—which was what he needed, because he had to put Maya down someplace safe before going to find Tony.  A few minutes later, they were back in the middle of the stadium; the woman went off in another direction entirely, but Steve ran straight into the garden, remembering how strongly it had smelled earlier and hoping that the corn stalks would shield Maya from the biters.

               He set her down, stepped back, and prayed that he wasn't about to be responsible for her death.

               With that done, he pulled away, scanning the stadium—and there.  That was the press box, and unfortunately, it was right above the entrance the biters would soon be streaming in from.

               He didn't have much of a choice, though.  Taking a deep breath, Steve ran back inside, dodging a few of the biters that were ahead of the pack and taking the stairs three at a time.  A few seconds later, he'd found the entrance to the press box, kicking the door down without preamble.

               Tem was here.  Tony was here, too, seemingly conscious, but Tem was standing over him, one hand grasping Tony's collar.

               "Get away from him!" Steve cried, sending the shield flying again—the angle wasn't a good one, though, not if he didn't want to hurt Tony as well, and though the shield hit Tem and sent him sprawling, it landed with a clatter in a corner of the room.

               Retrieval could wait.  Steve rushed to Tony's side, grasping his wrists.  "Tony, are you okay?"

               Tony blinked slowly up at him, and Steve once again felt a thrill of fear—but then his vision seemed to sharpen, and Steve sighed softly in relief.  "Yeah," he managed, though his voice was a little shaky.  It sounded like he'd recently been coughing.  "Sorry, I just—I've been hit with a lot of stuff, I think.  Steve, this guy is crazy.  We have to get out of here."

               Steve managed a nervous laugh.  "What do you think I'm doing here?" he said.  "Let's go."

               He helped Tony to his feet, only to have him immediately fall over with a soft hiss, eyes squeezing shut in pain.  "Fuck," he breathed.  "My ankle—I think it's sprained again."

               "It's fine," Steve said quickly.  He could hear the biters starting to push up the stairs.  "I'll carry you."  Quickly, he bent over to gather Tony into his arms—

               And then a gun went off, and pain blossomed in Steve's side.

               "Steve!" Tony shouted.

               Steve swayed momentarily, ears ringing, although he held onto Tony for dear life—unwilling to let him go even if it was to stem the blood he could already feel running from his side.  He turned, though, and found Tem on the ground, reloading a gun.  "You," he managed, torn on what to do next—he couldn't fight him, not while injured and carrying Tony, but he couldn't turn his back on him, either.  Tony made his decision for him, though, pushing at his chest hard until he tumbled out of Steve's arms and landed with a grunt against the floor.

               "I'll hold the biters off!" he called, grabbing his rifle, which had dropped onto the ground.  "Take care of him!"

               This wasn't right.  Tony was hurt.  But the biters were coming and Tem was about to shoot again, and they didn't have a choice.  Ignoring the pain in his side, he ran toward Tem, kicking the gun from his hand, but then Tem's leg swung out, and Steve wasn't fast enough to dodge it, instead tripping and gracelessly falling over.

               Tem was on top of him in an instant, fingers scrambling to grapple with what looked like a clunky ring on his index finger.  "You can't—leave—" he ground out in between the sounds of Tony shooting at the biters outside the press box, and Steve pushed his hands away in time to see a short burst of flame shoot out of the top of the ring.

               He didn't even have time to wonder about it.  "Nothing's stopping me," he hissed in return, elbowing him in the head.  Tem jerked away, stunned, but he was surprisingly resilient, bouncing back and hitting the ring again, and Steve felt a searing heat graze his cheek.

               "You're the _future_ —" Tem continued, but before he could finish Steve banked hard to the side, crushing Tem underneath him before rolling away completely.

               His shield was nearby, and he was quick to pick it up, staggering to his feet and taking a few more steps back.  "You're going to get us all killed," he said.  The range of the—the fire ring was short, but he could see some of the papers they'd been fighting close to already starting to burn.  "Is that really what you want?"

               "If I die, it won't be at your hands, _Captain_ ," Tem laughed.  He lunged for his discarded gun, Steve holding back long enough to see him grab it, raise it, and point it straight at Tony—

               And then he fell, the shield lodged squarely in his skull.  Steve stumbled back against the far wall, grasping at his gunshot wound and catching his breath.  He hadn't even exerted himself, not physically.  But he'd done it.  He'd killed a man.

               "Jesus," he whispered to himself.

               He didn't have long to recover, though.  The fire was starting to spread, and Tony was still gunning down biters at the doorway.  Steve picked up their things again, pulled his shield out of Tem's body, and ran over to Tony.  "Ready to go?"

               Tony growled and drew back from the door, slamming it shut before pushing the rifle aside.  Immediately after, there was a muffled thumping sound as biters tried to get in.  "Ran out of bullets," he said.  "I thought I could shoot them all down, but there were more than I expected.  Where did they even come—"  He cut off then, his lips parting in surprise as he turned to Steve.  "The room's on fire."

               "Yes," Steve said, scooping Tony up with only minimum protest.  "We have to get out of here now."

               "It's a good thing the only way out is through a doorway with a bunch of biters on the other side, then."

               Steve could have done without the sarcasm, but Tony was right.  Things weren't looking good.  If it was just him, he would have broken one of the windows and jumped out, but that wasn't something Tony could do and still be able to run off—especially with his ankle hurt again.  Then he blinked, remembering.  "Natasha's things."

               Tony's eyes went wide, and he immediately sat up in Steve's arms so he could rummage through his pack, pulling out the smoke bombs and firecrackers.  "Get ready," he said, and then he set off the first one and dropped it onto the ground next to the floor.

               As soon as thick plumes of smoke started spurting out from it, Steve pulled open the door, backing himself and Tony up so that they were between the door and the wall and holding his breath as he heard the biters start to stumble in.  God, there were so many—what kind of hellish experiments had Maya and the others been running on them?  Eventually, though, it seemed like there was a gap in the mass of biters squeezing through, and so Steve slipped out of the room with Tony, heart pounding.  Once outside, he paused long enough for Tony to set off another smoke bomb and to throw one of the firecrackers down the far end of the hall, and then he started to slowly edge toward, then down the staircase, clutching Tony against him.  The biters brushed past them, so close that Steve could almost smell their stench, but thankfully the smoke bombs did their jobs, obstructing their sense of smell—both Steve's and the biters'.

               Then Steve heard coughing.  He looked and saw that Tony had gone still, his eyes wide and his hand clamped to his mouth.  Even as Steve watched, he could see Tony's shoulders begin to tremble, and then he was coughing again, his throat sounding like it was in complete agony.  "Sorry," Tony gasped out in between coughs.

               "Are you okay?  What did that guy do to you?"

               "Just go," Tony managed.

               There was no time to worry.  The biters were starting to slow down near them again, and, not wanting to be a sitting target, Steve broke into a run.  More than one biter made swiping motions in their direction, but Steve set his shoulders and barreled past them.  Soon enough, they were finally, finally back at the field, and Steve paused, catching his breath and praying for the throbbing in his side to stop.  Almost right on cue, a muffled explosion came from behind them—something blowing up upstairs, most likely.  Now all Steve had to do was find the exit, and then they'd be safe.

               He turned left, took a few steps, and found himself stopping at the sound of rustling to the side.

               "You can't go," Maya said, stepping out of the garden.  Steve turned to look at her reluctantly, though he kept Tony—still coughing—shielded with his body.  There was a long gash on her face that wasn't there before, and she was holding the tranquilizer gun from earlier.  "You made me lose my samples of your blood.  I need more."

               "Maya, it's over," Steve replied wearily.  "Tem is dead.  The stadium is burning down and we're surrounded by biters."

               Maya took a few steps closer, though she was still some distance away.  Her expression remained stoic.  "He knew that sacrifices had to be made," she said.  "It doesn't change anything.  I can always find a new place to do my work.  You're the key.  The key to unlocking humanity."

               "That's not something I want to be part of, Maya," he said softly as he carefully took a few steps back in return.  "Please.  Just escape while you still can."

               There was another explosion, followed by the sounds of shuffling getting louder and louder—the biters were coming back down the stairs, and Steve was only a few feet away from the staircase.

               "I need more samples," Maya insisted.

               Steve went quiet, considering his options.  Before he could figure out what to do, though, Tony spoke up, voice low enough so that only he could hear.  "You know where the exit is?" he asked.

               "Yes," he said, wondering where this was going.  "But I don't know if it'll be clear. "

               "We'll have to take that chance," Tony said.  "I'm going to set off another smoke bomb."

               The idea seemed dangerous.  He knew where the exit was, but not if there was anything waiting for them on the way there.  But Maya wasn't going anywhere and Steve didn't know if he could outrun her—his side was still throbbing with pain from the gunshot wound.  "Okay."

               "So?" Maya pressed.  "Are you going to make me shoot you down?"

               Tony dropped a canister onto the ground in response, and the world went gray around them.

               Steve ran.  In his arms, Tony threw something, and he could hear firecrackers going off between the sounds of Maya screaming—though whether it was out of fear or rage, Steve couldn't tell.  It didn't matter, anyway; only getting out of here did.

               Which suddenly became a lot harder when he ran up to the doorway that he knew would lead to the unblocked exit and found it caved in with rubble.

               Steve looked behind them, realizing their situation was even worse as biters started to emerge from the smoke, the firecrackers having fizzled out.  "You got any more of Natasha's things?" he asked.

               Tony shook his head.  "Put me down," he said, voice raspy.

               "What?"

               "You heard me," Tony said.  "Look.  There's a small gap I'll be able to crawl through.  And then you can get out of here without me weighing you down.  We'll meet outside."

               "You can't go in there!" Steve snapped.  "Who knows what might be trapped in that hallway?  At the very least I should be going in too!"

               Tony shifted in his grasp.  "Yeah, that's exactly why we shouldn't both be squeezing into the mysterious black hole.  But you can't carry me around forever.  Steve, we're running out of time!"

               "Damn it," Steve whispered.  But he didn't know what else they could do.  On his own, he could dodge the biters long enough to find another way out, but as much as he hated to admit it, Tony wouldn't be able to make it.  At the very least, he could get Tony into the hallway and open the door from outside if it came to that.  "Okay.  Fine."  Carefully, he set Tony down, steadying him as he wavered on his one good foot.  Then he pressed the shovel into Tony's hand, gripping his shoulders afterward.  "I'll keep them off you until you're through," he said.  "But you—you listen to me.  Be safe, okay?  Just be—safe."

               "You be safe too," Tony said, gazing up at him.  "I'll see you soon, darling."

               Then he turned, quickly hobbling over to the former doorway and pushing away some pieces of wood.  With one last look at Steve, he got on his knees and then crawled through the gap, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.

               Steve exhaled sharply, turning his attention back to the biters.  "You want to fight?" he called at them.  His shield went swinging as he started to run down the field, being as noisy as possible to deter any of the ones who might have otherwise been inclined to follow after Tony's smell or the fading sounds of his coughing.  He could feel his wound starting to bleed sluggishly again with the movement, but there was no time to do anything about it right now.  Instead, he just kept on running, bowling down any biters in the way and keeping an eye out for an exit route.  Not long after, he caught sight of another set of staircases leading up, and he made a beeline for it, feet pounding with every step.

               This was it, his escape route.  There was only a railing and—well, more distance than he'd like between himself and the ground—separating him from freedom, and he was going to take it.  Narrowly avoiding some of the biters that had already made their way up here, he jumped over the railing, holding his shield underneath him and curling up above it.

               He hit the ground with a sharp cry, the impact setting off another wave of pain from his bullet wound.  For a moment, Steve could only lie there in agony, his whole body aching.  By the time he was able to force himself up, four of the biters had followed him over the railing, and more were coming—whether because of the noise he'd made upon landing or just bad luck, he didn't know.  It didn't matter.  The only thing that _did_ matter was getting to Tony.

               The thought had barely articulated in his head when a sharp movement caught his eye, and to his great surprise, Tony was here, his shovel swinging to take down the biters.  "Tony!" he called, but the other man didn't seem to even register it—he slashed the shovel to take the head off one biter, then knocked another one down onto its back before jabbing the sharp end of the shovel into its forehead.  "Tony!" he tried again.

               This time, Tony seemed to hear him, and he jolted, pulling the shovel out.  "Steve," he said, voice raspy.  Whatever strength he'd had seemed to drain out of him, because his knees buckled, and he had to grip hard on his shovel to stay up.

               Steve rushed toward him, wrapping his arms around his body to keep him steady.  "What the hell was that?" he asked.

               "You were surrounded," Tony replied, as though that were any reason to come running in without any thought toward self-perseverance.

               Another biter came tumbling from above, but it hit the ground head-first and didn't move again.  Steve inhaled, exhaled.  "Thanks.  I guess.  Are you okay?"  Tony's shirt was torn, and it didn't seem like it had happened just now.

               "That guy who was at the door earlier was there," Tony said.  "He turned.  We fought.  Let's go."

               Steve frowned at the clipped tone of Tony's voice, but he chose not to press it for now, if only because he didn't want to stand right in front of a stadium that was burning down and filled with biters.  "Let's go," he agreed, scooping Tony up into his arms and starting to walk briskly down the street, turning a corner at the first possible opportunity so that there wasn't a direct line between them and the biters.  He remembered they'd left their bikes somewhere nearby, but he didn't think Tony could ride one in his condition, so walking it was.

               "We're not being chased anymore, you know," Tony pointed out once the sounds of the stadium had faded away, though he nonetheless wrapped his arms around him.  "I can hobble around on my own.  For God's sake, you were _shot_."

               That was something Steve still needed to take care of, but it could wait.  "But I _can_ carry you, so I will," he said.  "Is that something you're opposed to?"

               Tony hesitated, then shook his head as he rested it against Steve's chest, trembling a little.  "Thanks," he said quietly.

               "You never need to thank me for anything," Steve said.

               There was no reply.  Steve looked down and found that Tony had closed his eyes, so he kept walking in silence.  Though he kept his own eyes peeled for nearby biters or other unusual sights, there was little to be found.  Grateful for the respite, he continued on, wanting to put as much distance between them and the stadium as possible.

               He'd just entered a park, green and quiet and so unlike the world they'd stepped out of when Tony shifted in his arms, lifting his head.  "Hey," he said.  "Can we stop?"

               "Sure," Steve said.  He looked down at Tony, eyes going wide in surprise.  Tony was pale—paler than Steve had ever seen him.  "Are you feeling okay?"

               Tony exhaled sharply, glancing off to the side.  "Set me down."

               Steve complied quickly, finding a large tree that people might have once picnicked at in better times and setting Tony down at the base of it.  "What is it?"

               "This wasn't your fault," Tony replied, and in that instant, Steve knew the worst had happened.  Tony rolled up one sleeve to reveal his wrist, which had been hastily wrapped with a piece of his own shirt.  "I'm sorry, Steve."

               Steve stared at the fabric.  He knew what was under there, but he couldn't believe it.  "No," he said.  "That—it's a cut.  Right?  I can stitch it.  Let me stitch it."

               "No, Steve," Tony said gently.  "You can't.  Darling, I was bitten."

               He couldn't listen to this.  "You _weren't_ ," Steve insisted.  "You can't have been.  Why didn't you say anything earlier?  We could have—have done something—we can still do something!  I'll amputate—"

               " _Don't_ ," Tony interjected, his voice gone hard.  "Don't.  It's too late.  It's always been too late.  Don't take away my hands."  He reached up to run his fingers through Steve's hair, and Steve didn't know if he should move closer or pull away.  His touch was cold, but ultimately, Steve couldn't resist it.  "I'm sorry."

               Steve wasn't sure if his heart was still beating.  They'd come so far.  They were days—maybe even just _a_ day—away from Bethesda.  And now he felt like his world was ending.  "I don't understand," he said finally.  "Always been too late?"

               "Closer, darling," Tony said softly, and Steve couldn't help but comply, drawing nearer to him as though Tony were a magnet.  "There are some things I should tell you."

               "Like what?" Steve asked, not sure if it would be anything he could bear to hear.  Tony, to his surprise, motioned for him to turn around, so he did, unable to deny him anything.

               "Like how I've been dying for a long time," Tony answered, and Steve twisted around at that, only reluctantly turning forward again when Tony nudged his shoulder.

               "You told me your heart was fine."

               He could hear Tony rummaging around in the pack, and then the next thing he knew, his shirt was being pushed up, and Tony was carefully wiping away the blood with shaking hands.  "No," came the quiet reply.  "I told you my reactor was fine.  The truth is, Steve, you can only keep a failing heart beating for so long."

               "What are you trying to say?" Steve asked, his eyes squeezing shut.  He wasn't sure if he'd actually accepted any of this yet.  He didn't think he had.  "You've been dying this whole time?"

               "I'm sorry," Tony said again.

               Steve took a shuddering breath.  "Stop apologizing.  You're the last person who should be sorry.  You were _dying_ , and I spent so much time being angry to you at the beginning—oh, God—"

               "Don't go down that path," Tony said.  Steve could feel him applying the antiseptic, but the sting was nothing compared to the turmoil in his head.  "It's okay, Steve.  I know why you were angry.  The fact that you stopped being angry was more than I ever expected."  He smoothed the gauze on, his touch gentle.  "Because all I'd wanted… needed…"  His hands dropped, and Steve turned to meet his gaze, his blue, blue eyes.  "I found you," Tony whispered.  "And I got to see you again."

               Steve closed his eyes again.  God, he thought.  What could he even say to that?

               "So it's okay, darling," Tony continued, his cold hands reaching up again to touch Steve's cheeks, and Steve forced his eyes back open.  "That—that was how I lost the suit.  I repurposed it to pull you out of the water, and it was irreparably damaged afterward."

               "Oh, my God," Steve managed brokenly.  It was him.  He was the reason Tony no longer had a suit.  If things had been different, if Tony hadn't wasted the suit on him…

               Tony shook his head, as though he could read the thoughts running through Steve's mind.  "It was worth it," he said fiercely.  "It was so, so worth it.  You make me think that we'll find a way out of this darkness.  Not even because you survived a bite.  But because you're Steve, and no matter what happens you'll always be Steve.  You've given me hope in a hopeless world."

               "What hope?" Steve whispered.  "You're going to—"  He cut himself off, unable to say it.  "It's going to happen, and I had a part in it."

               "It was always going to happen," Tony said gently.  He withdrew one hand, bringing his bag closer instead.  Steve watched as he rummaged around, pulling some papers out.  "Listen to me," he said.  "This next part is very important.  Do you remember these?"

               Steve reluctantly turned his gaze toward the papers.  "It's the blueprints for the Tveria," he said.  He turned back toward Tony.  "I'll get them to Jim and your friend.  I promise."

               Tony shook his head again.  "It's not just that," he said.  "Steve, do you know what we need for a airborne distribution mechanism besides something to distribute?  We need a way to power it."  He laid his hand over his chest.  "I designed it to use the fusion reactor.  It's the most reliable thing there is."

               "God," Steve repeated, a shudder passing through his body.  Tony had known this whole time.  He'd planned for it.  "Are you asking me to do what I think you are?"

               "I am."  Tony put the papers back into the bag.  "Take the reactor after… it happens.  Reed will know what to do with it."  He took a deep breath, looking paler than ever.  "And…"

               He trailed off.  Steve watched Tony expectantly for a moment, but nothing more came—and then suddenly the words that had gone unsaid came to him in a rush of blinding clarity, and Steve didn't know if he could take it.  "Tony," he whispered.  "You…"

               Tony glanced off to the side.  "I know you have… reservations," he said.  "So I'm not going to ask you to do it for me.  But I want to do it for myself.  I can't let the alternative happen."  His voice became pleading as he looked back at Steve.  "I know you could stop me if you wanted to.  But Steve, this—this is me begging you.  Please.  Let me."

               This was it.  Tony wanted to die, and he wanted Steve's permission to make it happen.  Steve could barely comprehend it.  They'd spent days, weeks, months together, traveling south, fighting side by side, and this—this was the choice Steve was facing now.  It was unfair.

               _How could you bring me out of the ice for this_ , was on the tip of his tongue.

               But he held back.  Because saying those words to Tony now, when it was going to be over for him soon— _that_ was unfair.  Steve couldn't do that to him.  And ultimately… maybe it was for the better.  If he was thrown back into time, if he'd gone into the ice again, and if he could choose for Tony to find him or leave him there that second time around, Steve felt like maybe, even knowing that things would turn out the same way, that he'd be kneeling here in a park with Tony dying before his very eyes—he would choose for Tony to find him.

               It was worth it, he thought, to have to survive in a world like this for the chance to know Tony again.

               "I can't let you do that," he said.

               Tony went pale—even paler—and his eyes went wide.  "Steve—"

               "Sweetheart," Steve interrupted, and that quieted Tony fast, his lips parting in shock.  "You don't have to ask me.  I'll do it for you."

               It went against everything he knew.  A more naïve him might have protested that it was immoral.  A more stubborn him might have snapped that it felt like giving up.  That no matter which way he cut it, it was wrong, and he could never do it.

               But he'd seen things now.  He knew things.  Jessica and Carol.  Him and Bucky.  Tony and his father.  It wasn't wrong, and—he had to do this.  For Tony.

               "I'll do it for you," he repeated, mostly to himself, and he reached out, placing a hand against Tony's cheek, feeling the scratchiness of his beard.

               Tony leaned into the touch, his eyes watery as he gazed up at him.  "Thank you," he managed, voice cracking.

               "You don't have to."  With his free hand, Steve reached down, looking for the rifle—but he found nothing, and he inhaled sharply in panic.  In front of him, Tony looked similarly alarmed, following his gaze.  Without the rifle, what could he use?  How could he make this as painless for Tony as possible otherwise?

               Then his fingers closed around something else, something buried deep in the bag.  He pulled it out, blinking slowly at it, the metal glinting dully in the fading light.

               "Natasha's Makarov," Tony said.  "I thought you refused it."

               "So did I," Steve replied.  He stared at it, remembering— _you'll need it someday_ , she'd said, and he wondered now if she knew the necessity of having to pull a weapon like this on a companion.

               Wordlessly, Tony reached out for the gun, and Steve let him take it without complaint.  He looked at it for a long while, running his fingers along it before checking the magazine.  "It's unloaded."

               Steve looked back at the bag.  There was a box in there, and he brought it out, opening it to reveal several bullets.  He swallowed and offered the box to Tony, who stared at it before taking out one bullet, replacing it, and then taking out another bullet.  He repeated this a few times until he finally found one bullet he was apparently satisfied with, sliding it into the magazine and handing it back to Steve.  "Now… now we're ready."

               "Are we?" Steve asked, his gaze falling onto the pistol.  He didn't feel ready.  He didn't think he would ever feel ready.  But he'd told Tony he'd do this, and he'd rather die than go back on a promise like that.

               "No," Tony admitted.  He reached up with a shaking hand, the one with the bite, and gripped at Steve's shoulder as tightly as he could, like his life depended on it.  Maybe in some small way, it did.  "I'm afraid," he whispered.

               Steve swallowed as he looked down at him.  What could he even say to that?  He was afraid, too.  He was afraid of inflicting pain on him, whatever the reason.  He was afraid of Tony turning into the thing he most feared.

               And he was afraid of having to go on in a world without him.

               But it was selfish, he thought, to voice those thoughts aloud.  The best he could do now was to offer Tony strength and hope and courage.  "It'll be okay," he said softly, and he prayed to whoever was listening above that his words wouldn't be a lie, even if they felt like one.  How could it be okay?  There were, he was realizing now, so many things he needed to say to Tony, so many things he should have said earlier, when there was still a chance.  Now their time was up, and all those words would remain unsaid forever, forgotten the way so many other fragments of civilization had been forgotten in this world.

               Maybe, though, there was time enough to say one thing.

               "Tony," he murmured, and he reached up again, running his fingers through Tony's hair, remembering the way he had done this so many years ago.  "My feelings for you.  They're the same as they were before."

               Tony let out a choked sob, and he turned against Steve's hand, as though he was craving his touch.  "Say it," he whispered.

               Steve closed his eyes, exhaled, and then he opened them again, his gaze seeking out Tony's.  "I love you," he said.

               The next thing he knew, Tony had managed to find the strength to push himself away from the tree, surging into Steve's arms and holding onto him tight as he kissed him for all he was worth, and for a brief, beautiful moment, Tony's lips were all Steve knew, everything wrong with the world simply a distant memory.  He could do nothing but kiss Tony back, his own arms wrapping around Tony in return, and when Tony finally had to pull away, panting, Steve thought he looked happy.  He was still pale and he was still dying, but the happiness—the happiness on his face was something Steve wanted to remember always.

               "I love you too, darling," Tony said, and he slumped back against the tree, chest heaving.  His eyes fluttered shut, and he forced them open again through what seemed like an immense amount of effort, meeting Steve's gaze.  "Always."

               They were running out of time.  Steve gripped the pistol, raising it and pointing it at Tony's head, forcing his hands not to shake.  Tony was still looking at him, and the sorrow and trust and love in his eyes was almost overwhelming.  Steve couldn't let him down.  "Always, sweetheart," he said.

               Tony smiled, and Steve pulled the trigger.

 

*

 

When the pyre finally burned itself out, Steve gathered up everything that hadn't turned to ash, and he carefully placed the pieces into a shallow hole he'd dug earlier.  It was one of several—he'd made a hole for each of the dog tags he'd collected during the journey south, and then he'd buried each of the soldiers one by one as the fire had roared behind him.

               Tony had had no tags.  Tony had never officially been military.  But as Steve carefully pushed the dirt back in, he thought that this was exactly where Tony belonged—with the rest of the soldiers, because he was as fine a soldier as any of them had been, had served their country as much as anyone else, if not more.  And like the others, he had paid the ultimate price.

                When that was done, Steve went back to the pyre and collected the ashes.  Those he took to the nearby creek, and there he scattered them, watching as the water carried it all away and wondering if there was such a thing as the afterlife.

               And then that was it.  One of the most brilliant, witty, caring men the world had ever known, and it was almost like he had never existed.

               Almost.  _Almost_.

               It was up to Steve, now, to make sure his legacy remained.  Up to Steve to ensure that his contributions weren't lost.  Steve was alive where so many other people weren't, and it was because of Tony.  He couldn't let it be in vain.

               And so Steve returned to the remains of the fire, to the dusting of ashes that remained on his makeshift pyre.  There, he knelt down, closing his eyes as he ran his fingers along the cooling wood, feeling the texture of the grains beneath his fingers.

               "I'll miss you, sweetheart," he whispered.

               The sun was rising.  He couldn't stay.  And so Steve straightened, his hands gray with ash, and then he gathered his belongings and continued the long road south alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end. As promised, I'm linking again to the lovely art by [fields-of-lamplight](http://fields-of-lamplight.tumblr.com) (again, major spoilers, but if you made it this far presumably it doesn't matter anymore): <http://fields-of-lamplight.tumblr.com/post/153117990930/my-art-for-my-capironman-big-bang-2016-with> Please go and leave them likes and reblogs! :D


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